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TROOPER TALES 


A SERIES OF SKETCHES 

OF 

The Real American Private Soldier 


BY 

WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT 

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Short Story Index Reprint Series 


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BOOKS FOR LIBRARIES PRESS 
FREEPORT, NEW YORK 


First Published 1899 



Reprinted 1970 


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STANDARD BOOK NUMBER: 

8369 - 3308-7 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 

70-106271 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


ABP 

GIFT 

f^UBLiSHES 


To tl^e great outer wall of a great i]ation, 
THE REGULAR ARMY MAN, 
who does what he is told, silently, ingloriously, 
surely, this volume of cavalry sketches 
is dedicated by one who lingered 
with you for a little while, and 
knows, therefore, how 
great you are. 




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CONTENTS 


The New Recruit in the Black Cavalry. . 
The Silent Trooper. .... 

The Degeneration of I^addie. 

Toreador the Game One. 

The Wooing of Benito. . . , . 

Two Women and a Soldier. 

Red Brennan of the Seventh. 

A Soldier of Misfortune. 

Shadow and the Cherub 

Back to San Anton’. .... 

The Voice in the Fourth Cell. . 

The Good Which Was in Him. 

The Aberration of Private Brown. 

The Last Cell to the Right. . , 

The Fever’s Fifth Man 

The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 

A Soldier and a Man. . . . . 


PACB 

II 

22 

43 

55 

69 

81 

95 

107 

121 

133 

145 

159 

173 

187 

201 

211 

225 









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INTRODUCTION. 


Civilians write army stories. Commissioned officers 
write army stories. Enlisted men laugh at the former 
because the author is remote and they cannot bruise 
him. Had they the power to lure the civilian into their 
midst they would shortly drill him full of real army col- 
oring, and his effusions would be shrunken with lean, 
beautiful wisdom ever after. But, since he keeps his per- 
sonality removed, the soldiers can only laugh. 

The literary efforts of commissioned officers are dis- 
cussed in whispers by the enlisted men, because they are 
only enlisted men, while the commissioned officers are 
old and young gods, who become very masterful beings 
when criticised audibly by men from the ranks. 

But no one can deny that the army stories of commis- 
sioned officers are full of officers’ instinct, and officers’ 
fleckless uniforms, and clubs, and ladies. The enlisted 
men who emerge upon these idyllic pages are sort of 
baneful and temporary necessities, as are warts. There 
are orderlies with square shoulders and brick faces, whose 
vocabularies consist of “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” uttered 
in disfigured English. In the stories of commissioned 
officers the enlisted man is a thing for duty, not for speech 
— a thing to fight if necessary, not to think — an animal 
whose pastimes are cards, canteens and colored ladies — 


viii 


INTRODUCTION. 


whose realm does not embrace an aptness in the softer 
arts. In short, he is an atom of no consequence. 

I realize that, in writing thus, I hurl from me all dreams 
of ever being a private soldier again — at least, under the 
name I used in my last enlistment. It is pathetic for a 
writer who might be a soldier to starve just because he is 
frank. 

The army stories which civilians write have none of this 
ungovernable officer’s instinct. Corporals and colonels 
become chummy in such tales. A trooper and a troop 
commander wax convivial together at the canteen. And 
that is why enlisted men who read all army stories grin 
unfeelingly. 

The young man who scans this volume of cavalry 
stories and enlists afterward will probably make a good 
soldier, because he must be a very reckless young man. 
The enclosed choice cuts of wisdom were drilled and 
pounded into the author, and the wisdom which leaves 
tooth marks behind is not superficial. 

And yet the man does not exist who has once soldiered 
who does not yearn sometimes to again be a blue atom in 
the great blue mass which makes the backbone of Uncle 
Sam’s fighting bottom— when it comes to a show down. 

The cactus and alkali of the Southwest blows about in 
a couple of these yarns, because I ‘"soldiered” there. The 
flies and fever of a Southern army camp crawl about in 
a couple of others because I “soldiered” there. A num- 
ber of the yarns are full of the groans and drug odors of 
an army hospital, because I was fortunate enough to get 


INTRODUCTION, 


ix 


out of there alive. Some of the stories are spattered with 
the mud of Porto Rican hills, and are dark brown from the 
grisly pressure of Cuban sunshine — I left friends (and I 
hope no debts) in both places. Only a few others re- 
main. These are yellow with guard-house coloring, be- 
cause I ‘^soldiered” — well, all good soldiers have served 
time. 

It would arouse suspicion to declare that the accom- 
panying yarns are all true, but Fll swear that I tried to 
make pictures of real American cavalrymen and their 
troop horses — and the pictures were made mostly be- 
tween bugle-calls. I have tried to show that there are 
men in the ranks of Uncle Sam’s horsemen — wild, in- 
corrigible, splendid men ! 

If I have made an inglorious fizzle of the task — well, I 
have ‘‘soldiered” in vain. 


W11.L Levington Comfort. 


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t Ariiii iMtf A*iiii k r dll A mk WiiMHii irilHhiitl 


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The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 






THE 


RECRUIT IN THE BLACK CAVALRY. 


What his real name was, nobody remembered. It could 
be found somewhere in the troop-books. Because he could 
sing like a woman, the boys in the Black Horse troop 
called him “Sadie.” There are two colored cavalry regi- 
ments in Uncle Sam’s service. Both showed what great 
black demons they could be last summer in the hills back 
of Santiago. 

A train containing part of one of these regiments 
stopped in Tampa for a few minutes near a white cavalry 
camp. It is a wonder that there was no blood shed. 
There were many men from the South in the ranks of the 
white troops. They were in a frenzy of rage because 
the darkeys were under orders for the front, while they, 
were being slowly broiled under the canvas of a torrid 
camp. A month later, many of those same darkey cav- 
alrymen were brought back. They had been to the front. 
They had heafd the song of the Mauser. Many times 
the song had ended in a grunt from some sandy, sticky 
throat, and a hero was made. The wounded cavalrymen 
in the hospital train were deliriously happy. The battle 
fever fires one’s blood for weeks after. 


14 The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 


The wounded coming back were received differently. 
The Tampan troopers were browner and thinner and 
uglier than before, but they cheered and petted the heroes 
until the train pulled out for the Northern hospitals. 
After that the men who had never left the States became 
sullen and insubordinate and worked themselves into a 
state of melancholy inebriation — ^because they had not 
been given a chance to prove that they were soldiers all. 
But this is the story of Sadie, the toughest, blackest and 
sweetest-voiced recruit who ever came to the Black Horse 
troop. 

His beauty was purely physical. He never learned 
anything about horses in the cavalry service. It was his 
instinct to master a mount. His limbs had a most beau- 
tiful cavalry curve, and superb saddle muscles bulged out 
the thick trousers of army blue. His shoulders and lungs 
were equaled only in power by his digestion. 

Sadie never had a serious interval. At least, not while 
he was a soldier. In fact, there is less seriousness in a 
black troop of cavalry than in any other place in the 
world. But you ought to see them on a skirmish line! 
They fight without nerves, feelings, fears. They know 
no hunger, thirst or pain. 

To hear Sadie sing, ‘'Swing a-low. Sweet Chariot,” on 
the moon-lit deck of a transport — well, a man would 
think things which never occurred to him before— espe- 
cially if he were advancing toward a hostile coast. And 
then there was a little gunboat shining through the dark 
off the starboard bow — a pugnacious little fellow that 


The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 15 

shot toward every suspicious gleam or shadow on the 
tropic sea^ and tried to darken the moon with its search- 
light. The great dark transport steamed southward 
through the gloom, secure in the protection of her baby 
consort^s big guns. Indeed, she could have steamed 
southward just as steadily if the gunboat had perched 
itself upon her hurricane deck. And Sadie, the black re- 
cruit, lounged in the moonlight with the other cavalry- 
men, and crooned soft melodies about dusky maidens 
back in the summer States. 

As a rule, American soldiers, white and black, eat three 
times a day. Once in a while, however, in the stress of 
international war, or an indisposed second cook, it be- 
comes necessary to forego government straights. A box 
of hard tack is then placed in a convenient place and the 
men receive orders to *‘bust’^ themselves. When the sun 
is pouring down yellow volleys which make you limp and 
vicious ; when your tongue shrivels up like a boiled clam 
at the mere sight of salt water; when the fresh water is 
warm as a flask of spirits kept in a laborer’s hip pocket, 
and smells as if it had been filtered through all the 
blankets in the forecastle; when you are unloading petu- 
lant and plunging cavalry horses, and your feet are blis- 
tered from the hot decks, and your blue army shirt steams 
and suffocates — well, no matter if you are fond of hard 
tack, you can’t choke it down. 

The black troops landed, while the little gunboat 
watched and pointed its guns toward the great, brown, 
treeless hills. Somewhere back of those sun-burned, de- 


i6 The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 


serted hills there was a city, which sported the wrong 
flag. The name of that city was Santiago. The black 
cavalrymen knew that they must hunt the hills for the 
town and correct the little mistake about the flag — more 
than that was the business of the white commissioned 
officers. 

Back from the hills the night shadows crept. The 
sun sank blood-red and vicious across the water. The 
smell of rain was in the air. The picket lines were 
stretched upon the shore, and the baggage was piled 
above the high-tide mark. There had been an informal 
guard-mount, and the men had received orders not to 
leave the camp. They were refreshed by hot coffee and 
a plunge in the sea, but they were hungry still. A couple 
of vultures trailed across the sky, but nothing human 
could be seen by the troopers on land — nothing save the 
darkening hills and the watcher out on the bay. A rain 
cloud skirted the shore-line to the left* and its torrents 
pounded the water and the hill-margins a half mile away. 
The men could hear it coming closer. Those who watched 
from the gunboat could see faint red lights far back in 
the hills. 

The black troopers growled because they had to smoke 
on an empty stomach ; they growled because the rain put 
out their pipes and the cook fires, and because they would 
have to shiver in the wet and cold for a dozen hours. 
Tropical showers do not last, but it is unpleasant to sleep 
where they have been. But big, black, toughened cav- 
alrymen can sleep anywhere. It was very late when the 


The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 17 

dripping stable guard of the Black Horse troop kicked 
about among the puddles and snoring soldiers, inquiring 
testily : 

^^Wheah’s Sadie — ^wheah's dat a-fool niggah, Sadie 

Now, the sentry had walked his post up and down the 
picket line for two long, soaking hours. He wanted to 
turn over his orders to Sadie, and be relieved. But it 
was evident that Sadie was not in camp. To go about 
proclaiming the fact would mean trouble for the missing 
recruit, therefore the sentry went back to his post and 
started to do Sadie^s guard. The idea that he was doing 
anybody in particular a good turn did not worry the 
sentry, but if he could have caught the black recruit that 
minute something would have happened. 

That night the corporal of the guard did an unsoldierly 
thing. He deliberately woke up, consulted his watch, and 
figured out by a process of his own that Sadie should be 
walking his post down on the picket line. As Sadie was 
a recruit, and it was the first night on hostile soil, the 
corporal deemed it advisable to find out if his man would 
challenge properly. The top layer of wet sand under the 
non-commissioned officer was thoroughly warmed 
through, and he hated to let it cool off, which was very 
easy as compared to the warming process, but a conscien- 
tious man was the corporal. When he found the wrong 
man on post, he was glad that he had left his warm hole 
in the sand. 

Not long after that, Sadie slipped past the guard with 
two limp pullets and a very noisy, very much animated 


i8 The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 

game chicken in his arms. The recruit was panting and 
wet, indeed, but his eyes were shining. He tethered the 
game one out in the bush and concealed the two limp 
birds under his blanket. Then he buckled on his six- 
shooter, shouldered his carbine, and started for the picket 
line to relieve his man. It was not until Sadie had told 
the much-abused sentry where he would find a plump 
chicken that there was peace. Meanwhile the corporal 
figured out the best way was to do his duty on the fol- 
lowing day, and slowly re-warmed his hole in the sand. 
And the gaudy little gamecock ruffled his feathers in the 
dark and clucked low, and scolded. 

The result of the corporaFs figuring reached Sadie 
about seven o'clock the following morning. He was in 
condition to hear the worst, for one of those plump pul- 
lets had been broiled at dawn. There is the makings of 
a mighty soldier in a plump Spanish chicken. The col- 
ored corporal reported the absence of the black recruit 
to the top sergeant, also black. Among other things, the 
top sergeant mentioned the affair to the troop com- 
mander, who was white, and also very wet and ugly that 
morning. And so it came about that the black recruit 
saw the troop commander striding his way about seven 
a. m. with blood in his eye and these words : 

'*Do you think this troop is out hunting butterflies — 
eh? You're under arrest — understand? And I'll court- 
martial you when the men take that town up in the hills — 
understand — eh ?" 

It would be prompt and certain self-destruction for the 


The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 19 

black recruit to answer back a white commissioned offi- 
cer, who was so wet and ugly. Sadie was enough of a 
soldier to know this. He stood at attention and saluted 
gracefully every time his superior officer finished a sen- 
tence. After that he was placed under a guard. The 
sentry who had done an extra hour for the recruit the 
night before was Sadie’s friend for life. This was 
brought about because the second plump pullet had 
also been broiled at dawn. The two friends conferred 
together during the first hour of the recruit’s incarcera- 
tion. 

“Ah mos’ cert’ny feels strong dis a-mawnin’,” observed 
the black boy. “Dat Spanish chickum did mos’ glori- 
fusly do her duty by a-me. But Ah had to gib obah mah 
shootin’ ir’ns to dat Gawd-a-fearin’ cawpril. What foh 
does yoh s’pose he dun wanted to make trouble foh a-me 
dat away? . . . Is de troop dun a-gwine up de hills 
dis a-mawnin’?” 

The prisoner was told that all the horses were to be 
kept back with one troop to guard them — ^that the others 
were going to start up toward the city as dough boys 
early in the afternoon — ^that there were a half dozen 
dough-boy regiments farther up the hills — ^that there 
were acres of block houses and miles of barb-wire fences 
and trenches, and a whole Spanish army hidden some- 
where within the sound of cannon — that the American 
fleet was laying off the coast in front of Santiago, and 
that the Spanish squadron was behind Castle Morro in 


20 The Recruit in the Black Cavalrv. 

the harbor — that there was going to be merry hell up the 
hills which would last for a week or ten days. 

*‘Is — de — Black — Hoss — troop — dun — agwine — up — 
de — hills — or — stay back?” Sadie's full lips, which 
formed the question, were ashy gray. The words were 
uttered in a slow, hopeless whisper. Here's the reply to 
his question: 

^'Does yoh fink for one moment dat dey's agwine to 
leab de cream an' skallups ob de whole niggah regiment 
back heah to shine up de skates — when de band’s dun 
agwine to play dead marches an' de variations up yon- 
dah?” 

The troop commander was approaching. The sentry 
came to ^'present arms,” and the prisoner stood ‘‘at at- 
tention.” Great thoughts were in the brain of the black 
recruit. He was about to make the bravest effort of his 
life. 

“Will de captain 'low me to go up de hills in de troop 
to-day — an' serve mah time after de fun am obah, sah ?” 

“I'll turn you over to the other troop, where you'll be 
under a guard — that’s what I'll do to you — understand — 
eh?” 

The sun was steaming out the rain from the troop 
commander’s blouse, but he was wet and ugly still. Sadie 
saluted in graceful silence, and choked down a great, dry 
lump in his throat. After the captain was out of earshot, 
the black recruit said to his friend : 

“Las' night Ah dun larieted mah lil' game chickum out 
in the bresh. He wah a-crowin' up in de hills, when Ah 


21 


The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 

heard him. Ah knowed he wah a game chickum ^cos he 
dun crowed in de night time. You bring him heah to 
a-me. I wants dat lir game chickum. He dun make me 
lose de onliest chance in dis niggah’s life.^' 

The little game one was tethered by one leg in front 
of the quarters of the disgraced Sadie. The two talked 
to each other, while the mutual friend was absent for a 
handful of grain. 

“Whah foh yoh dun call to me in de night time, when 
yoh knows Ah mustn’t leab a-camp ?” 

The game one talked back spitefully. His beady black 
eyes sparkled with pure wickedness, and he squared olf 
in splendid fighting form when the prisoner thrust his 
heavy boot within the circle of the tether. The bird had 
thick, stocky legs, and gaffs hard as crystal. His body 
feathers were glossy black, and his muscular neck had 
copper-hued trimmings. Even for a Spanish chicken, the 
game one was a fancy article. 

‘‘Ah mos’ cert’ny los’ mah nerve when Ah heard yoh 
callin’ to me up in de hills las’ ebenin’. Ah sure knowed 
you had some lil’ sisters up dar. You ought to be a mos’ 
broken-hearted HI’ chickum foh dis a-poh niggah. Ah 
hopes de whole Spanish army and barb wires comes 
aheah when de odah troops is dun gone. Yoh and me, 
an’ dose Bay Hoss niggahs will dun take de island bah 
ahselves. . . . What yoh dun scoldin’ about, mah 
HI’ game chickum ?” 

The hot, brown hills were darkening again. Over in 
the low southeast, the crescent shaving of a moon paled 


22 The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 


in the deepening twilight. Out in the bay, the gunboat 
leaned on its moorings and watched. All at once there 
ripped over the hot Cuban hills a ragged carbine volley. 
Evidently the black troops had found something to play 
with. An hour afterwards, and the hills were great dark 
shadows, for the night overhung them. The white shav- 
ing of a moon was higher. 

About this time every darkey cavalryman in the Bay 
Horse troop heard the howls of a fallen sentry, and the 
angry cackling of an outraged game chicken. But not 
one of the boys who stayed behind saw the black recruit, 
who was clutching a loaded carbine and whirring away 
toward the great black shadows. 

Now, everybody knows that you can't see Santiago 
from the coast. You can't even see Morro Castle a mile 
out at sea, because its ramparts are the color of the rocks. 
Entering the channel, your craft will be at the mercy of 
Morro's guns. Then you will pass the sunken Merrimac, 
and a couple of Spanish men-of-war, the cabins of which 
are excellent breeding-places for big fish. After that you 
will see a round basin full of warm, yellow water and 
hungry sharks. To the left is a sun-scorched plain, where 
yellow-fever patients fight for life, losing generally ; and 
in front, sitting on the slope of a hill, is Santiago, minus 
some of its rottenness of a year ago, but hardly immacu- 
late yet 

Four miles back of Santiago there is a hill which looks 
down upon the city and its harbor. Upon the top of that 
hill there is a big block-house. Upon its sides there are 


The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 23 

many other block-houses, also barbed pitfalls, intrench- 
ments — and graves. It was upon that hill that the black 
demons broke their leash, forgot their thirst, and gained 
everything save the glory they deserved. But they were 
only regulars. 

Something went wrong in a volunteer battalion that 
afternoon. They were good men and brave, but raw. 
They had not eaten for many hours. The sun beat piti- 
lessly down. It soaked into the wet sand and sent forth 
a sickening steam. It sank through the dusty campaign 
hats of the volunteers and put mad thoughts in every 
brain. It swung a black-dotted haze before every eye. 
It chafed the skin under every cartridge belt, and blis- 
tered every neck. And all the while there came down 
from the hill the nagging, maddening patter of the long- 
range Mausers. And all the while there came down from 
the sky the stifling, pitiless pressure of the sun. 

The volunteer battalion wavered and fell back — ‘Re- 
tired in disorder,” the official report read. It was the 
one ugly blotch on the American soldiers in Cuba. The 
volunteers have long since been forgiven by the friends 
of their native State ; but the colored cavalry troops, and 
the other regulars who did not fall back, will never for- 
give that battalion for what the sun madness wrought in 
their raw ranks at the base of San Juan hill that July 
day. 

The ^'niggers” went by them — a, cursing, unfeeling 
mass of animals. They preserved a ragged skirmish line 
all the way. They ran a little, dropped to their bellies 


24 The Recruit in the Black Cavalry, 

and fired, vaulted the barbed entanglements and caught 
their breath in the trenches they had gained. And Sadie 
was in the ranks of his own Black Horse troop, clutching 
a red-hot carbine, and talking to himself in a perfect de- 
lirium of joy! 

“Dose white ladies is a-mos^ cert^ny unhappy,” the 
black recruit was heard to mutter after the raw battalion 
was left behind. The words came in a stifled whisper. 
His throat was caked with hot dust, and his nostrils were 
full of it, but Sadie did not know. He did not remem- 
ber that he should have been a prisoner back with the 
game chicken and the Bay Horse troops. He did not 
know that the troop commander had seen him on the 
skirmish line with the others, and the white officer hardly 
knew whether to laugh or swear. As a matter of fact, 
the troop commander did both, and he also hoped that the 
black recruit would get wounded, so that he might forego 
the punishment which his insubordination made neces- 
sary. Sadie knew nothing, felt nothing but the glory of 
the moment. 

“An’ dis am mos’ cert’ny a wahm time. Is Ah glad 
Ah’m libbin’? Well, Ah hope Ah is. . . . Dey sure 
ought to gib us asbestos mittins to pump dese heah car- 
bines, foh dey would mos’ cert’ny boil coffee! . . . 
Hello, dar, mah angel broddah, gimme dat a-cigarette. 
Ain’t yoh a-dyin’ fast enuf, widout hittin’ de coffin 
nails?” 

A wounded Spaniard, braced up in a trench, was weak- 
ly puffing at a cigarette; nor was he the only one who 


The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 25 

was seen smoking and dying on the slope of San Juan 
Hill that day. Sadie drew a deep inhalation into his 
lungs, then put the cigarette back between the lips of the 
Spanish soldier. 

“Ah guess Ah don’t want yoh las’ butts — ^yoh may 
wake up in de middle ob de night an’ need it. . . . 

0-0“0-oh, dah’s dat Gawd-a-fearin’ cawpril!” 

The non-commissioned officer who had made trouble 
for the recruit a few nights before was having a very 
fast time. A Spanish infantryman was in the trench with 
him. Both were fighting for their lives. The Spaniard 
had a bayonet attached to his Mauser; the corporal had 
nothing but a bare, hot carbine. Sadie settled the matter 
in favor of the Black Horse trooper. Many of the block- 
houses were silenced, but whistling death still blazed out 
of the big one on top of the hill. The barb wire traps 
became thicker, and more men on the skirmish line fell 
back into the trenches and grunted out impotent curses. 
Many others lay silent. The black troops were not the 
only ones who kept the small of their backs to the 
trenches, no longer Spanish, that afternoon. 

“Dis cert’ny am de mos’ glorifussest moment ob mah 
life,” gasped the black recruit. He vaulted a barbed wire 
pitfall and was racing toward a trench, two rods ahead. 
Two Spaniards scrambled out and started to dash for the 
summit. They never reached it, because too many Ameri- 
can soldiers were counting on just such chances as that. 
The battle fever was wild in Sadie’s blood. At that mo- 
ment some one up in the block-house did not shoot too 


26 The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 


high. Sadie stumbled and was the first man who landed 
in the upper pit. 

“Ugh!** grunted the black recruit. “Ah mos* cert*ny 
am punctahed at de present time. Ah wondah ef dose 
fool Spaniards am acquaintanced ob de fac* dat dey can*t 
kill dis a-niggah. . . . Ah is dun agwine to sit heah 

till de boys am in de block-house up yondah.” 

The above came in choking fragments. The troop 
commander had seen the rescue of the corporal and the 
plunge of the black recruit into the higher trench. For 
some reason he swore. It was not a loud oath. The dust 
which stuck in his throat would not permit that. And 
that night from the top of San Juan Hill many American 
soldiers, white and black, but Americans all, saw the 
lights of Santiago shining down in the valley. And all 
night long the Red Cross men kicked about the trenches 
with lanterns. 

They found the black recruit sitting in one of the high- 
est pits. His blue army shirt was wet and gory. A car- 
bine rested across his knees. The barrel was cold now. 
Sadie was asleep. 

The Red Cross men thrust the lantern into the face 
of the black recruit. He opened his eyes, squinted hard 
at the light, and muttered : 

“Wheah*s mah lil* game chickum?** 

The troop commander stood at the bunk of the black 
recruit in the temporary hospital just outside of Santiago. 
By the way, the city no longer sported the wrong flag. 


The Recruit in the Black Cavalry. 27 

And there was a twinkle in the eyes of the troop com- 
mander as he said: 

“We're going to send you back to the States to-morrow 
on the hospital ship. We won’t court-martial you until 
you get back from sick-leave — understand — eh?” 

“If de captain dun gibs me five yeahs an’ a bob-tail, 
Ah’ll still be glad dat Ah wah in de Black Hoss troop at 
de propah moment, sah !” 

“You sabed mah life,” said the corporal. 

“Why, what yoh talkin’ about, cawpril?” said Sadie. 

And when the captain and the corporal had gone away, 
the black recruit questioned his best friend in this wise: 

“Is de Bay Hoss niggahs come up yet — wif mah lil’ 
game chickum?” 




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THE SILENT TROOPER. 


Lander, trooper in private ranks, never told just why 
he was kicked by his lieutenant. Mat Crim. Lander never 
told anything. That accounts for his being left to him- 
self more than is common or judicious for one of Uncle 
Sam's horsemen in field or post. 

A troop is a family of big boys. Some of them are big 
bad boys, and an odd thing about it is that these are not 
always the unpopular ones. Troopers do not fall on the 
neck of a new man. They treat him with pinnacled dig- 
nity, like old cavalry horses treat additions to the picket 
line. If the new man, in a reasonable period, develops 
no objectionable traits, he will find himself a member of 
the family, which is other words for a good fellow. 

Because a man happens to be a gambler or a drunkard ; 
or because he has a deep-rooted aversion for the various 
prongs of the law — a kind of shuddering aversion such 
as many soldiers and gentlemen have for work — ^none of 
these things form a primary necessity for his ostracism 
from the family group. 

But he can't be a silent man nor a sneak; neither can 
he manipulate a voluminous correspondence. These 
things are fatal. Lander was a silent man. 

He was also my ^'bunkie," which means that I could 


32 


The Silent Trooper. 

put out a hand almost any time in the night and touch 
him. Naturally, under such conditions, my very proper 
prejudice against him on account of his infernal reserve 
would either grow into an uncomfortable suspicion, if 
not worse, or else I would learn to look beyond this seri- 
ous mental derangement of his. As it was, I began to 
feel for him that strong, wholesome respect which one 
always has for physical capability, when it is not accom- 
panied by mental sluggishness. 

Then I liked Lander's face. He was a handsome devil 
— handsome astride his horse, and at mess and at groom- 
ing — handsome when silent. Yet I have seen his eye- 
lids droop over a wicked pair of shining eyes, and seen an 
^gly> bloodless look about his lower lip. 

I saw this on the hot day when Lieut. Mat Crim 
kicked him in the back, because — I wish I knew myself. 
I will tell you what I saw. 

A couple of troops of the regiment were out on target 
range. We were camped in a bunch of unaspiring foot- 
hills which, late in the afternoon, rested in the huge coni- 
cal shadow of Old Baldy. The tip of Old Baldy's icy 
cone punctures the sky at one of the highest points in 
Arizona. We were in that sand-stricken land where way- 
farers have to climb for water and dig for fuel-wood. We 
were in that heat-ridden land where the lean, long coyote 
scents death and trots cautiously thither — where the vul- 
ture cranes his bare, crimson neck from behind a cloud, 
and peers earthward for dying things. 

The loose walls of the big Sibley tent were not flapping 


33 


The Silent Trooper. 

in a breeze that afternoon. The silken, tasseled flag which 
crested headquarters hung limp and motionless. The 
sun's rays were slanting and vicious. They sapped the 
energy out of the breezes as they did out of every living 
thing. The men rolled about the tents in wet, wilted 
misery. Grooming call would soon be sounded. That 
meant three-quarters of an hour over a sweating horse 
in the sunshine. The men were putting on their dis- 
carded shirts now, and swearing in a listless monotone. 

Lieut. Mat Crim was a little, wasp-waisted chap, who 
had a dirty trick of getting mad. His West Point days 
were too fresh in his mind for him to be a good officer. 
He never allowed himself to lose sight of the fact that 
he was a commissioned officer and that a mighty stretch 
of superiority lay between him and a common, enlisted 
man. Crim had just been transferred to our troop. Lan- 
der had come from another regiment two months before. 
The two men met that hot afternoon — just before groom- 
ing time. 

Lander saluted. Crim stopped short, caught at his 
breath several times and began to relieve himself of a 
lot of livid English, all of which struck me as mysterious. 
Lander stood ''at attention," said something in a low voice 
and walked away. 

Lieut. Crim was ungovernable. He sprang after Lan- 
der, kicked him in the back and said : 

"I’ll make life a hell for you, Charlie Howard !’’ which 
I judge must have been Lander’s civilian name. 


34 


The Silent Trooper. 


Lander turned, looked devilish and raised his big right 
arm. His superior officer was under it. 

But Lander’s arm never touched Lieut. Crim, a circum- 
stance which made me cry aloud: 

“Thank God!” 

It dropped down, while Lander laughed low and me- 
lodiously. I was thinking how wicked Lander looked 
when he laughed that way. Then the bugle sounded 
“stables.” 

Every man in the troop detested the lieutenant, and 
all admired Lander for keeping his nerve. One of the 
most unprofitable things a soldier can do is to strike a 
superior officer. The same kind of a finish awaits him 
as if he had been found sleeping at his post. 

I watched Lander, and Lander watched Lieut. Crim 
during the several following weeks. And they were not 
pretty eyes, those strange eyes of Lander’s, as they trailed 
the movements of his superior officer. 

To all he preserved his self-bound intensity. Glad, in- 
deed, would I have been to come very close to the heart 
of this silent man, because I learned to have deep feelings 
for him. He possessed the cold nerve which makes 
heroes, and the great, warm heart which makes friends — 
I was sure of this. But his nature was broad enough 
to cover his troubles, so he did not confide in men. Heroes 
can hate well. 

Why my eyes wandered to the opposite side of one of 
Lander’s letters while he was holding it up, and there 
lingered for a single disgraceful second, is something 


The Silent Trooper, 35 

more than I can explain. I can only regret it. At any 
rate, I saw these words: 

“Oh, Charlie, do let me come to you!” 

A lady-killer is my silent friend, thought I ; but I didn’t 
mean to read part of his letter — really, I didn’t. 

After five weeks the troops were ordered to the bar- 
racks. No one was sorry, for life on target range in 
Arizona is tedious, putting it with studied mildness. And 
then they have mosquito netting in the barracks. 

A tragedy was enacted on those moonlit foothills at 
Old Baldy’s base the last night on range. I am not a 
handy man at tragedies. It was this way : 

“Say, old chap,” said Lander in a light manner the 
morning before, “do a little favor for me, will you? I 
want you to meet a lady for me. I believe I will have 
another engagement to-night!” 

“A lady in this damned country !” I whispered excited- 
ly. Nothing but greaser maidens and squaws had I seen 
for months — it seemed. 

Reluctantly he handed me a note, part of which is 
below : 

“I could not help coming. I was frantic when I learned 
that he was transferred to your troop. You must meet 
me to-night. Did you think I could forget you? Oh, 
Charlie, I may be acting unwomanly, but I am desperate. 
No one knows me here in the village. I will be near the 
last adobe hut on the north. Oh, why did you go away? 
I thought * * * Come to-night. 

“It’s a common yarn,” said Lander nervously. “She 


36 


The Silent Trooper. 

knew me up north as a civilian. Crim and I were sta- 
tioned there^ but he did not know me. I was only a 
private. She was lovely to us both. The queer thing 
about it is that I won out. Then it occurred to me that 
I was only a common soldier, who had flunked at every- 
thing else he tried, and hardly fit to marry, so I applied 
for a transfer and chased out. She wouldn't have Crim, 
anyway. 

‘‘Now Crim turns up again in the attitude of my supe- 
rior officer, which is very dramatic, and the little woman 
is here, which is also very dramatic; and as I can't see 
them both I want you to go to her. I must keep the 
other engagement. Tell her I'm a deserter, or dead, or 
any old thing." 

For the second time I heard Lander laugh low and 
melodiously. I can hear it yet. He was either acting or 
a devil for coolness. 

“There'll be a show down to-night," he said. 

After retreat, the lieutenant called for his horse and 
loped slowly townward. The sun was red and low, and 
the silken flag over headquarters was cased for the night. 
A little later Lander entered the tent, drew his cartridge 
belt about him and sauntered carelessly out. 

“Don't keep the little woman waiting long," he whis- 
pered to me. I watched his form grow dim in the shadows 
toward the village. Then I stepped into my cartridge 
belt, looked at my six-shooter, and became one of the 
mysterious townward procession. Something is going to 
drop on the village road this night, I thought. 


37 


The Silent Trooper. 

Lander was sitting by the roadside a mile from camp. 
He was puffing a cheroot, and smiled, but did not speak 
to me. A round moon whitened the heavens about Old 
Baldy. I walked away from the village, then stole back 
concealed by the chaparral. While I waited, I wondered 
why I had not remembered to shake hands with Lander 
that night. 

It seemed a long time before the lieutenant’s horse was 
heard down the road. I hoped that Lander would pick 
off his man from ambush. I hated to think he would 
do it. 

“Dismount, lieutenant!” sang out the man who had 
been kicked, and he did not salute his superior officer. 

What Crim said as he obeyed is rather important but 
not necessary to this narrative. But Crim knew then 
that he was only a common human man, like the being 
before him^ whom he had kicked. He saw in the faded 
twilight a private in the regular army who, in the presence 
of other men, was his slave, but who, alone in the foot- 
hills of Arizona, was a cool, determined, smiling foe. He 
saw before him the handsome Charlie Howard, who was 
loved by a woman he loved. He saw the reckless light 
in Howard’s eyes which boded no good. And in spite of 
all these things, Lieut. Mat Crim was game. 

The moon was looking over Old Baldy’s icy crown 
now, and the great dome above and the sand below were 
filled with its whiteness. 

“You acted the coward once, little officer — try to be 
a man to-night,” I heard Lander say. “It was imprac- 


38 


The Silent Trooper. 


ticable to procure seconds, so you will have to rely upon 
the honor of a common soldier. Perhaps you never as- 
sociated such sentiments with an enlisted man. I see 
that you have your six-shooter. I was too soft-hearted 
to bruise you with my hands. 

Crim looked at his man keenly. He then looked over 
his six-shooter carefully. He had been a clever shot at 
West Point. 

“Who gives the signal ?” he added, clearing his throat. 

“Count three in the position of ‘raise pistol,* ** said Lan- 
der politely, “after which you are at liberty to fire as 
soon as you please.** 

Crim*s tall gelding browsed uneasily and whinnied. 
He wanted to get back to the hay on the picket line, but 
he was a trained cavalry horse and did not think of 
trotting off alone. I watched, not knowing what else 
to do. 

Both men took position, and came to the regulation 
“raise pistol.** 

“Ready?’* asked the lieutenant, clearing his throat 
again. 

“All ready,** answered the silent man cheerfully. The 
moonbeams whitened his forehead. 

“One,** said the lieutenant. Both men were motionless. 

“Two!** he screamed. His arm dropped. There was 
a noise and an empty shell in his six-shooter. The lieu- 
tenant had forgotten to say “Three.** 

Lander was dying in the moonlight, and there was no 


39 


The Silent Trooper. 

empty shell in his six-shooter! Mat Crim, his superior 
officer, ran to his horse like a thing affrighted, and gal- 
loped away. 

“Go and tell her, old chap,'' Lander whispered, “that 
Charlie Howard was afraid to meet her to-night. Tell 
her that his memory is a far worthier shrine for her wor- 
ship than — a common cavalryman. Tell her I was a de- 
serter, because — damn it all, old man, I think a lot of 
the little witch. You needn't tell her that Crim is a 
coward — just say he is a good shot." 

And when there were no more words I hurried away 
to the village to keep Lander's engagement. She was 
there — a little thing, pretty and trembling. There was a 
lace handkerchief in her hand and a soft perfume about 
her. 

I told her what Lander had said. She did not cry, 
but clutched my arm with fierce strength. 

“Take me to him," she demanded. 

I led the way back over the rolling road, and when we 
neared the spot where I had left my silent friend in the 
moonlight, I heard a long, low, mournful howl, the an- 
swer mingled with the echo. 

“Let us hurry — faster I" I said. 

There was no change. Lieut. Mat Crim had not re- 
turned. The woman picked up the pistol which had fallen 
by the silent man's side, and drew open the cylinder with 
the ease of a veteran. Six loaded cartridges fell into her 
hand. 


40 


The Silent Trooper. 


'‘You saw it all?” she questioned, slowly. “And he 
was your friend ?” 

I bowed. 

“Then you will kill the coward for your friend’s sake?” 
She spoke the words altogether too loudly. 

“He is my superior officer, madame,” I whispered. 

“Leave me now,” she commanded. 

“But, madame,” I objected, “I must walk with you 
back to the village.” 

“No, no ! Leave me. I have this.” She was replacing 
the cartridges into the cylinder. 

As I stood watching her, a bugler in the camp a mile 
away played the last call a soldier hears at night — the 
mournful, melancholy taps. And I looked down upon 
my friend, the silent man — they would sound taps over 
him to-morrow — and I forgot that I was only a private 
in the regular army. 

“Leave me now,” she repeated. 

And when I had gone a few paces I turned. She was 
bending low. 

The moon was high above Old Baldy now, and its 
whiteness was upon the upturned face of the silent man. 

Lieut. Mat Crim called for his horse the next morning, 
when a guard told him that the bodies of Private Lander 
and a white woman had been found out in the chaparral. 





/ 


The Degeneration of Laddie. 


$ 


1 









THE DEGENERATION OF LADDIE. 


In trouble was his normal condition. Laddie was 
considerable of an artist in the first place, therefore he 
could not have found himself in a worse predicament than 
to be in Uncle Sam's service. If his artistic nature had 
only been in his fingers, instead of his whole being. Lad- 
die might have found hapiness in the troop, for we all 
loved him. 

In that affected brain of his there was another dis- 
torted idea. He was possessed of the wild notion that he 
was as clever a chap mentally and with his muscles as 
any of his superior officers — oh ! 

Laddie feared neither black man nor white. He had 
been in Porto Rico three months, and had enjoyed only 
ten days’ liberty. In spite of this handicap, the smiles of 
the richest and prettiest senoritas in Manati were for him 
solely, and I honestly believe that he had more friends 
among the natives than any other cavalryman. His was 
a genius for making friends 

Three soldiers were standing on a mountain side just 
out of Ciales. It was early evening. Twenty miles 
away, through a rift in the mountains, they could see the 


46 The Degeneration of Laddie. 

Atlantic. The sun was sinking into the sea. The east- 
ern highlands were dim and shadowy now. 

‘‘Say we walk to Manati/' suggested one of the three, 
grinning. It was eight miles. Many are the govern- 
ment mules that have lain down and died on that trail. 
The Manati River crosses it eleven times. Many are the 
government mules that have kicked vainly and been car- 
ried away limp and lifeless, because they struck the Ma- 
nati fords in a wrong place. And government mules are 
not without a number of kicks. 

“You could not pay me to hit that trail in the night- 
time,’^ declared the second soldier. 

“I’ll go with you,” said Laddie, smiling. He was think- 
ing of the bright-eyed senorita, whose father had a cellar 
full of wines, pale and ruddy. The idea grew upon him. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t go unless all three of us do,” put in 
the cavalryman who was first to speak. 

Laddie was silent. He knew that he would go alone 
if he saw the senorita that night. 

“What time is it ?” he asked finally. 

“Five forty-five.” 

“Have you got a coin? Throw it up. If it’s head, I 
go alone.” Laddie was smiling still. 

“You’ve only been out of calaboose a couple of days. 
Be careful you don’t get collared again,” warned the sol- 
dier holding the coin. He threw it up. 

“Tail she is,” they told Laddie. Together the soldiers 
three wended their way back toward Ciales, A hundred 


The Degeneration of Laddie. 47 

yards they traversed in silence. Laddie stopped short. 
He was not smiling now. 

“Throw it up once more/^ he asked of them. By his 
manner one would think he was trying to borrow money. 
The other two soldiers made use of those expressions 
which the natives over here picked up first. 

“Well, youVe got your way. It’s head this time.” 

Laddie rolled up his sleeves. Then he felt in his pock- 
ets. “Give me a piece of tobacco. I’m short.” 

It was handed to him. 

“I’ll be back by reveille,” he sang, and trotted down 
the trail toward the first ford. 

“Why, it’s a cinch,” quoth Laddie in the first stream. 
The ripples splashed against his thighs, and his lower 
jaw became unruly. He made the first four fords, and 
the day was gone. He sat down on a rock and rested, 
while the moon rose up and cheered him. 

“Look out for the fifth and sixth fords going to Ciales 
— the sixth and seventh they are coming back.” He had 
often heard the boss of the pack train say this. And he 
remembered how his own horse had struggled in these 
places when the squad came up from Manati. Laddie 
shivered and started on. 

“A man ought to have four legs for this fording busi- 
ness. Why in the devil was I born such a noodle ? The 
sixth is deep and broad ; the seventh is fast and deep.” 

He scrambled down the bank of the sixth. Already he 
could hear the splashing down stream — the splashing of 


48 The Degeneration of Laddie. 

the falls just at the right of the seventh crossing. He 
stood ankle deep in the river. A big red horse, resting in 
the shallows, skipped out almost from under his feet. It 
thrilled him unpleasantly. Faintly, in the moonlight, he 
could see the trail continuing on the other side. He 
faced a few degrees up stream and plunged in. The 
mountain current chilled him breast high, and soaked 
some papers in the pocket of his army shirt. 

Laddie made the sixth, and the seventh, too — after a 
fearful fight. His constant thought was, “What would I 
do without the moonlight ?” He felt strong when he dis- 
cerned the lights of Manati, glimmering in the valley be- 
low. It was only half-past eight. He had done well. 

Laddie passed the volunteer military headquarters 
going back, and inquired of the sentinel the time of night. 
It was about to strike twelve. He would be in his own 
quarters by three — if the moon shone on the fords. He 
was quite happy. 

Stars were visible only in patches. Black streaks were 
moving around the moon. Laddie looked up and started 
on a trot. When the city was left behind, he removed 
his trousers and put on his leggins once more next to the 
skin. The memory of the red horse in the shallows made 
him do this. For the first time he felt weary, when he 
climbed up the Ciales bank of the fourth crossing. Rain- 
drops struck his face. The next ford was the ugly one, 
and it was growing darker, darker. Already he could 
hear the plunging river. His feet were troubling him 
now, and the trail was slippery from rain. 


The Degeneration of Laddie. 49 

“God help me if I don’t get there by reveille. They’ll 
think I’ve deserted — ^and with my record, heavens !” 

He stood in the murky blankness on the fifth river 
bank. It was so dark that he could not tell where the 
cliffs ended and the sky began ; he could not see half way 
across the angry Manati. Ah, but he could hear its roar ! 
Yes, and when he looked long he could see its foam. The 
tropical rain beat down. 

His strength was not so great as before. Laddie 
thought. The waters beat mightily against him. Every 
lime he raised his foot he feared that he must fall. He 
passed the nucleus of the river’s force. His breath failed. 
He stepped on a rolling stone, sank, and fought the 
waters hands and feet. Chilled and bruised, he groped in 
the rain for the trail. He had made the fifth ford going 
back — oh, but he was weary. It seemed as if he found 
the way and he walked on — for ages. His feet were 
feverish and painful. He approached the river, the last 
one he feared. It looked ugly and unnatural. 

Laddie plunged in, struck a deep hole and was borne 
swiftly down stream. He had hit the Manati in a wrong 
place. And then began a cavalry recruit’s battle against 
faintness, fatigue, and a wicked current. The perpetual 
smile on Laddie’s tanned countenance vanished when he 
told of that battle. 

“I felt that my time to croak had come,” Laddie said. 
Two hundred yards below the point where he entered 
the stream, the young cavalryman clambered up on the 


50 The Degeneration of Laddie. 

other side, and then he fell down in the rain. This is the 
way he goes on with the story : 

‘T was groggy when I got up, and cold with the wind 
and wet. I knew that I had wandered from the trail be- 
tween the fifth and sixth fords, because I had struck deep 
water. I groped along the bank both ways, until I 
thought dawn must be near. I prayed that I would stum- 
ble upon the trail. 

“This extremity I would not have deemed necessary, if 
I was only to be hung for missing reveille, but I would 
get a call-down from four different parties besides. This 
thought kept me on my feet. At last I walked away 
from the river and got tangled up in a barbed wire fence. 
The heavens did not give forth a ray, and it rained on. 
Following the fence to the left, it led me back to the river. 
I shuddered. There was still one more chance — to go 
the other way with the wires. This I did, and to my 
ears was borne a sweet sound. When I had wrung the 
water out of my eyes, I also saw a sweet sight. A dog 
barked and a shadowy shack loomed up before me. 

“I knew I would get shot at for a guerrilla, if I stole 
up, because the dog was making announcements. I 
vented Spanish, therefore, in a loud voice and at a dis- 
tance : 

“ * Americano soldato ! Americano soldato !’ I threw 
in some English to make a hit, and the rear door opened 
a couple of inches. ‘Tengo muchas penas, senor,' I 
wailed, all of which means that I was an American sol- 
dier of many sorrows. 


The Degeneration of Laddie. 51 

“ ‘Enter, Senor Americano. Que lastima.’ I was sin- 
gularly relieved to see the good wife hang up the family 
musket. I was also made happy to see the good wife 
rake up the coals in the fire-place and start a pot of cof- 
fee. Porto Rican coffee is as delicate and subtle in flavor 
as it is mighty in body. I drank and would have departed. 
There were dry clothes for me in the woman’s hand. Her 
husband had lit a cigar and gave it to me. An extra 
hammock had been strung. How I wished I was not a 
soldier that night. 

“Yes, I rested. I thought I had made the Spaniard 
understand the imperative nature of reveille roll-call, but 
I hadn’t. His spirit of hospitality was too massive. He 
would not let me depart until I had lain down. How de- 
licious was the drowsiness that stole over me — how beau- 
tiful that sleep. Alas, but it was a long one, too.” 

The first streaks of pink dawn were mellowing the east, 
when Laddie moved. The cigar was still in his hand. 
He jumped up with a groan of pain. His feet were sore, 
his muscles lame and stiff. The pot of coffee was still 
warm upon the embers. He swallowed a quantity and 
jumped into his wet clothes. The operation was a pain- 
ful one, putting it with studied mildness. Then he 
grasped the hand of the Spanish gentleman, murmured 
his gratitude, and dashed out into the dawn toward the 
trail. He could see it now winding upward toward the 
heights. He had missed it the night before by a quarter 
of a mile. 


52 The Degeneration of Laddie. 

Laddie reached the summit. Ciales stood out upon 
the cliffs a mile and a half away. And from the tiny vil- 
lage over the rocks and hills there was borne the first call 
a soldier hears in the morning, the cheery reveille. Poor 
Laddie groaned. He did not hurry after that. 

The troopers were at breakfast when he reached the 
quarters. The top-sergeant met him with certain phrases 
of English which would look strange if reproduced, and 
then went with him to the commanding officer. The cap- 
tain told Laddie, among other things, that he was a dis- 
grace to his country, and ordered him locked up. The 
prisoner wearily moved his bunk over to the Spanish jail, 
and rested all the rest of the day. Then he commenced 
to think. That evening when Kruger, a Hoosier recruit, 
brought Laddie s supper over to the jail, he found that the 
prisoner had become solid with the Spanish policemen 
already — solid to such an extent that they had allowed 
him to stroll in the plaza and watch the sunset. It is 
pretty to see the sun sink beyond the mountains away up 
there in Ciales. And Kruger, the Hoosier recruit, told 
the top-sergeant how solid Laddie was with the Spanish 
policemen — all of which caused the top to be very angry 
and much trouble for the prisoner. The latter spent the 
night in thought. 

***♦♦*♦♦ 

On the morning of the second day after this, they 
found that Laddie’s bunk was empty, except for the fol- 
lowing letter, which was characteristic : 


53 


The Degeneration of Laddie. 

**Dear Captain — My chief regret in taking this step is 
that I do so while the features of Kruger, the Hoosier 
child, are still intact. If a dirty word is written next to 
my name in the troop books, it is because there is no al- 
ternative. I believe that it is the desire of those above 
me to omit my name from roll calls. 

“I make no rash promises about being dead when re- 
taken, if any such unfortunate circumstance should oc- 
cur. I could not wait for a legitimate discharge, because 
the vermin here have got me bluffed. And besides, I am 
afraid of the noisome la viruella (smallpox). My fellow 
convict was taken away with it this morning. He was 
quite a gentleman, by the way. 

“Pure Castilians walk through my apartments with 
their noses in a sling. They walk through rapidly. I 
have not that privilege. I did not consult the worthy 
Porto Rican policia before leaving. Had I done so they 
would probably have wished me godspeed. 

“I have enjoyed the service. I have met some right 
royal good fellows. I have not the space nor the com- 
mand of English to write concerning some others. I 
have several sore toes, and a painful remembrance of the 
Manati fords. I hate to face my mother. 

“Here's looking at you all. I do this with no rum in 
my brain. May you all serve your thirty years and live 
happily ever afterwards in the soldiers' home, and may I 
reach God’s country '.efore I’m twenty-one. 

“Lovingly, 


Laddie.” 



“ And as Benite’s eyes peered through the dark he saw the little maiden 
whom he loved. The arms of a big American cavalryman were around 
her, and she was smiling into his ej'es,” 





Toreador, the Game One. 






TOREADOR, THE GAME ONE. 


Only two things in this world did Benito, the poor 
Porto Rican, love. One was Marie, who lived with her 
mother in a tiny shack away up in the mountains, and the 
other was Toreador, a very fancy, very trim and very, 
very game little red chicken. 

Now, Sunday is market day in that little tropical island, 
and the natives bring their wares to the plazas of the vil- 
lages. Then in loud voices they tell the passers-by just 
how good and cheap their things are. And every Sun- 
day morning Marie used to trip down the trail into Cori- 
zel, with a basket of sweetmeats upon her head, and then 
she would cry : “Cocoa de dulce ! Cocoa de dulce !” until 
her apron was heavy, and jingled with big centavos, and 
all the sweetmeats were gone. 

Benito would lavish his single centavo for a piece of 
Marie's sweets, but mostly he cared for the smile from 
Marie's dark, pretty eyes, which she always gave him. 
When Marie called aloud, “Cocoa de dulce," Benito 
thought that it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard, 
and after Marie's cute figure was lost in the coffee shrubs 
which bordered the trail, Benito would sigh and walk 


58 Toreador, the Game One. 

back to his little room in the poorest and shabbiest of all 
the poverty shacks in the district. Then he would di- 
vide the cocoanut sweets with Toreador, telling the game 
one all the while how wonderfully sweet and pretty was 
the maiden whom he gazed at so long every Sunday. 

Now, Toreador had blood in his veins as blue as the 
ocean at night. He was only a baby bird, but his race 
dated back to the time when Castilians ruled the world 
and owned most of it. Toreador was the scion of the 
gamest fighting stock ever pitted in that land of fair seno- 
ritas and fancy cocks. Toreador had gaffs as sharp as a 
surgeon’s lance and as tough as ivory. Muscles were on 
his body as hard as steel nails. He had a wicked beak 
and a long, thick neck — a typical fighting neck, and 
brownish black eyes so bright that they shone like elec- 
tric sparks. 

Toreador’s father was a champion of other days. 
Everybody for miles around Corizel knew the record and 
pedigree of this bird, and everybody envied the rich 
Spanish planter who owned him, because many were the 
pesos which the gamecock piled up for him every Sun- 
day. Now Benito had seen the doughty chicken’s last 
fight, after he had laid low five other birds in two hours. 
He was fighting in the dark, for the spark had run out 
of both his eyes. And no one was sadder than Benito 
when the great battle was over and the head of Torea- 
dor’s splendid sire dropped into the dust of the pit and 
rested there. 

The mother of Benito’s bird was as trim and fancy a 


Toreador, the Game One. 


59 


lady as ever strutted about a fresh-laid egg. No one but 
Benito knew of Toreador’s illustrious parentage, and no 
one but Benito knew how the tiny chicken became pos- 
sessed by the poor Porto Rican. One morning the little 
brothers and sisters of the artistocratic brood missed one 
of their number, and the mighty el capitan of the Ameri- 
can soldiers, who owned them aU, likewise missed the 
youngster, whom Benito called Toreador and learned to 
love. That was all there was to it. 

In the days that follow Marie grew more pretty to 
Benito’s eyes, and the game one grew strong and hard- 
ened. 

Time came when Benito could no longer wait for Sun- 
days in order that he might see the little dark-eyed 
maiden who parted her red lips in a smile for him. So, 
one evening, he crept up the trail toward the little high- 
land shack of Marie and her mother, and watched while 
the moon rose. Away up in the northland where the 
American soldiers came from and lingeringly talked 
about, it was winter; but the night was warm where 
Benito was, and the breezes of evening were as soft as 
only breezes are, and they were laden with the perfume 
of orange groves wild and vast. The moon rose into the 
heights and candles glinted in the village down in the val- 
ley. Meanwhile Benito watched, and the little Corizel 
River purled and tinkled on its way to join the Rio 
Grande. 

And when the moon was so bright and big that its 
white radiance dimmed the stars, Marie came out of the 


6o Toreador, the Game One. 

doorway and turned her face upward. Then she sang to 
the great, white beauty of the heavens — she sang of love's 
enchantment, and every note was a rapture to the poor 
Porto Rican who watched. It seemed to him one mo- 
ment that his heart must burst, so big was it. Then Marie 
sang soft and low of slumber, and the tinkle of the tiny 
Corizel was hushed when the slumber song was ended. 
The aged mother of the dark-eyed maiden sat with 
drowsy eyes in the doorway, biding her time. 

Next Sunday Marie smiled upon Benito prettier than 
ever, for she saw that he had a faint look, and that his 
face was very wan and ashy for a Porto Rican's. She 
did not know that he had been toiling from dawn to 
dark for six days, prodding weary oxen over the rocky 
trail between a big hacienda and Corizel, carrying tons of 
green coffee. She did not know that he had not eaten 
enough in those six days to satisfy the game one, nor that 
he had four bright silver pesos hidden away in his shabby 
shack. Marie did not know that his four silver pesos and 
his starvation were for her. But somehow she smiled 
upon him very sweetly that Sunday. Perhaps it was be- 
cause she pitied his wan face. And, oh, how happy was 
Benito, the poor Porto Rican, that day. 

A week passed and there were four more silver pesos 
hidden away in the dingy shack, and Marie did not see 
Benito this Sunday. Strange things were going on in 
his hut. Toreador was trimmed for action, like the decks 
of great fighting ships are. The green and copper-hued 
feathers of Toreador's neck were cut away. His wings 


Toreador, the Game One. 6i 

were clipped, and his limbs and breast laid bare. Then 
very skillfully, very carefully, Benito scraped and sharp- 
ened the gaffs of the game one until they shone like the 
sabers of American cavalrymen and were as keen as 
needlepoints. 

All the while Toreador clucked and scolded angrily. 
Never before did his brownish-black eyes gleam with 
such wicked intensity, and never before did Benito see a 
bird in such splendid fighting form as was his own little 
game one, as he strutted about the shack and scolded. 

When all the preparations were over, Benito wrapped 
his eight silver pesos in a cloth, and with the game one 
under his arm he walked across the town to the cock-pit. 
Toreador had no experience — only instinct. He was 
matched against a fancy gray chicken who had won bat- 
tles before. But the gray chicken never won another, 
because Toreador, somewhat scratched, but with two 
eyes and much nerve and wind, crowed lustily while the 
other was weakly pounding the turf with both wings and 
a bleeding crest. Marie was gone from the plaza when 
Benito returned, but he was never so happy before, since 
he had twice as many pesos as when he started, and he 
was nearer to the day when he might tell Marie’s old 
mother where his heart was, without shame. 

So time passed and Benito’s handkerchief became 
heavier and heavier, while Toreador added craft to his in- 
stinct and honor to his race. And Benito alone knew the 
stock from which his game one sprung. 

At last the great day dawned. 


62 


Toreador, the Game One. 


Now it was very natural that the captain of the Ameri- 
can soldiers should hear of the fame which a certain ple- 
bian bird was making, and straightway he sought out 
the poor native who owned this bird, and fixed a day 
when he should match his high-born Morro with the 
dauntless Toreador. 

The great day was fixed — the day that would make 
Benito rich enough to speak to Marie’s mother, or so 
poor that he would long for death. 

Thus it was that Toreador, whom men called the peer- 
less plebeian, met the mighty Morro, and great, indeed, 
was the battle. So nearly alike were the two birds that 
Benito found it necessary to distinguish Toreador by a 
ribbon on his left ankle. Men marveled at the likeness 
between the two birds, and trembled when they thought 
how terrible the battle would be. The American captain 
hired a native to train his bird. Benito and this man 
stood alone in the pit. Each held a chicken under his 
arm. The cocks were quivering, straining, clucking low 
and defiantly. The wagers were made; the birds were 
cooled with an icy spray, and the big cock-pit became as 
silent as the great white cliffs above. 

Benito never could tell what he did the next hour. It 
was a lifetime for him. His face mirrored the agony, the 
struggles, the determination of his game one. He thought 
not of Marie, not of the little fortune he would win or 
lose. He thought only, lived only for the doughty Spar- 
tan, whom he had reared from a chick, and who was try- 
ing to live under the onslaught of a worthy foe. 


Toreador, the Game One. 63 

Toreador did not feel Morro's keen gaff as it dark- 
ened one side of his head one whit more than did Benito ; 
and the heart of the poor Porto Rican grew cold. Ah, 
yes, Morro was a worthy foe, but Toreador had not weak- 
ened yet. The American captain’s chicken hugged 
closely to Toreador’s dark side and stabbed often and 
deep. At last the birds went into the air. There were 
thrusts that moment which no one saw. And when the 
rivals landed, Morro could not keep his feet. He sank 
to his breast, then slowly, very slowly, his beak dropped 
toward the turf. 

Toreador did not crow. He was staggering, pecking 
wildly at thin air. Both sides were dark now. Toreador 
did not know that he had won his last battle. And as 
the great shout went up for the winning bird, not a soul 
thought that Toreador had laid his own brother low. 

That night Benitoi walked up the trail toward the 
shack of Marie and her mother. Twilight had dimmed 
the sunset land. Over in the low southeast the moon was 
rising. 

Benito was not so happy as he dreamed he would be 
this moment, yet he was rich now, and yearned to see the 
little dark-eyed maiden of the highland shack. He 
thought of the songs she had sung that night, while she 
gazed up into the twinkling heights. He thought of 
Toreador, stiff and wounded, back in the town. 

Farther up toward the cliffs he could see the shadowy 
outline of Marie’s home. The night was falling upon it, 
and the tiny Corizel tinkled among the big stones. More 


64 


Toreador, the Game One. 


and more of the rocky trail was silently left behind. Very 
cautiously he emerged from the coffee shrubs a few rods 
from the shack. He was weak; his breath came fast. 
The big bag of silver pesos seemed very heavy. 

And as Benito's eyes peered through the dark he saw 
the little maiden whom he loved. The arms of a big 
American cavalryman were around her, and she was 
smiling into his eyes. 

Then Benito crawled back toward the lights of the vil- 
lage. The heavy bag of silver pesos lay by a big stone at 
the edge of the trail. 

Down in Benito’s shack, Toreador, sore and blinded, 
dreamed of the battle he had won. 

But the story of Benito, the poor Porto Rican, is not 
ended. 






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The Wooing of Benito. 



THE WOOING OF BENITO. 


Silk Redmond, cavalryman through necessity, and pri- 
vate of course, sat on the porch of an old banana-house, 
high up in the interior of Porto Rico. For a trooper, he 
sadly exerted his brain. It was very foolish for a man 
in Redmond's position to think at all. It seemed ages to 
him since patriotic proclivities went quivering through 
the land and the bodies and souls of callow young men. 
Then, for the first time in Redmond’s life, he had been 
close enough to the world to discover how threadbare it 
was worn in some places. 

Redmond had just emerged from college. There was 
a classical unsophistication about him. The youngster 
who blackened his boots might have given him all kinds 
of points concerning mundane matters — ^then. Redmond 
could have composed an astronomical essay with ease 
and effect, but he couldn’t dash off a murder yarn and 
make an edition for anything short of a weekly paper. 
Theoretically, he would have made a fast lawyer, but in 
practice it would have meant incarceration for a poor 
devil, whose jag had been officially spoiled, to trust to his 
pleading in police court. 


70 Tile Wooing of Benito. 

Silk Redmond needed to be polished off with that sort 
of jagged pumice which a man gets only by brushing 
about city streets — and in Uncle Sam's service. 

As the tall trooper sat on the porch of the old banana- 
house, with his toughened cavalry legs hanging over, he 
mused savagely on the days when he had a grudge against 
himself — those days when he tried to work off patriotic 
chills and fever, and be a civilian still. 

Turning his back upon college days and a pretty girl, 
Redmond plunged southward to join his regiment; and 
not until he sat on the dirty deck of a transport, smoking 
a very black pipe, and watching the officers up on the 
spotless bridge, where he dare set foot only at the price 
of his liberty, did Silk Redmond get time to think. And 
at night, away up north, a little college girl had com- 
pleted her studies for the day, and was thinking of a big, 
noble soldier fellow ; and often her eyelids were moist ere 
her student lamp flickered and sputtered out. But she 
did not write because she had a mind of her own, this lit- 
tle college girl, and she had told a certain big fellow that 
he was many kinds of a chump to chase away from his 
prospects, and everybody who liked him, when there was 
no show of his ever getting shot at, anyway. 

Mail had come in from the States that day, but there 
was no letter from the little college town. It was even- 
ing now. A disgusted cavalryman swung down from 
the porch of the old banana-house, answered retreat in a 
surly tone, and then strolled up the rocky trail toward a 


The Wooing of Benito. 71 

tiny shack where a dark-eyed maiden lived. Now Silk 
Redmond did this to get even with himself and the col- 
lege girl. His heart was not with the little dark-eyed 
maiden, whose name was Marie, but far away in the 
northland. Redmond was not happy as he panted up the 
steep trail. 

The village of Corizel was in the valley below him, and 
the little Corizel River splashed down the mountain side, 
passed by the village and tinkled on toward the Rio 
Grande. No cavalryman dared enter that village toward 
which the river was spreading. Hideous la viruela was 
there — smallpox, the Americans called it. A quarantine 
hung over the whole valley. That was why Uncle Sam’s 
cavalrymen were quartered in the old banana-house, two 
miles beyond the village. 

Marie had dark, Spanish eyes, cute smiles and ways, 
the prettiest of red lips and the tiniest of white teeth ; but 
somehow Silk Redmond was gloomy that night. He 
could think only of the other maiden away up in the 
northland, where the white faces and the great cities were 
— ^the maiden of the little college town, who would not 
write to him because he was a trooper. 

Together they stood, the trooper and Marie, in the 
moonlight, in front of the highland shack. The great 
white cliffs rose up above them ; and as they stood there 
with the white moonbeams resting upon their faces. Silk 
Redmond kissed the little dark-eyed maiden, because it 
was the proper thing for a trooper to do at such a junc- 
ture. 


73 


The Wooing of Benito. 

And at that moment the heart of Benito, the poor Porto 
Rican, was almost broken. 

It must be remembered that Benito, who lived in the 
poorest and shabbiest of all the poverty shacks in Cori- 
zel, had loved Marie long and dearly. And on Sundays 
in the plaza, the little dark-eyed maiden had often smiled 
sweetly upon him. Now Benito never told Marie that he 
loved her, yet all the while he was starving and slaving 
so that some day he might have money enough to tell 
her without shame. 

Then it was that Toreador, the game one, the fanciest 
of fighting cocks, whom Benito had reared from a tiny 
chick, met the mighty Morro in the cock-pit, and laid him 
low. And many were the silver pesos which Toreador 
won for Benito that day. But the game one could never 
be pitted again, for the gaffs of the mighty Morro had 
darkened the spark in both his eyes. 

Let it be known, too, that Benito, no longer poor after 
the battle, had crept up the trail toward Marie's shack in 
the shadow of the great white cliffs. A big bag of silver 
pesos was in his hand. Benito was sad because the splen- 
did Toreador, whom he loved next to Marie, must live 
always in darkness after that day. Had not Toreador 
given his eyes that he might have Marie? But Benito 
thought also, as he crept up the trail, of the little dark- 
eyed maiden, and of joys sweet and lasting. 

Slowly, very slowly, Benito crawled down once more. 
He had seen Marie's laughing eyes as the big cavalryman 
kissed her lips in the moonlight. His brain conceived no 


The Wooing of Benito. 73 

thought of vengeance that moment, but, oh, how it 
throbbed and burned ! 

It was not long after that when Silk Redmond kicked 
his foot against a big bag of silver pesos as he hastened 
down the trail. He whistled softly and marveled. The 
cavalryman had not been paid for two months, but, 
strangely enough, the idea did not occur to Redmond to 
buy bottles of rum, by which he might make himself for- 
ever solid with his fellow troopers. He was not an old 
enough cavalryman for that. 

Rapidly the tall trooper trotted down the trail. Indis- 
tinctly among the shadows and moonbeams ahead Silk 
Redmond saw a dark form creeping slowly toward the 
village. Softly he followed, clinging to the bag of silver. 

Was it a sob that he faintly heard above the splashing 
of the Corizel ? Anyway, the tall trooper forgot that taps 
would sound in a half hour and that cavalrymen are sup- 
posed to be in their bunks when the bugle notes are 
ended. He disregarded the stern order about entering 
the town, and cautiously followed the dark figure to the 
shabbiest of all shacks in the poverty district of Corizel — 
followed him through the very lurking-places of the noi- 
some la viruela. And at last Silk Redmond saw Benito 
push open the door of his dingy hut and disappear. 

Then the big cavalryman heard a piteous sound. It 
was the weeping of a man whose heart was breaking — 
poor, harmless Benito I 

It was a queer moment for Trooper Redmond. There 
was no light but that of the moon within the shack, and 


74 The Wooing of Benito. 

when the big soldier peered in he saw the bowed head of 
the Porto Rican, trembling in sorrow. And Toreador, 
with hurting wounds and shrunken eyes, drowsed and 
dreamed in the dark. 

A thought crept into the head of Silk Redmond. It 
caused him to chase over to a store. It made him pur- 
chase a candle and return to the hut of Benito. And 
everybody stared hard at the tall trooper as he passed 
by. They knew that he had no right to be walking the 
streets of quarantined Corizel. 

"‘Fm going to find out what that poor devil is ‘loco* 
about,” muttered Redmond as he tapped at the door of 
the shack. He held the bag of silver in one hand. In 
silence and solemnity the cavalryman lit the candle, and 
looked into the eyes of the Porto Rican. They were great, 
dark eyes, staring in wonderment and grief, and lustrous 
with tears. They moved piteously from the bag of silver 
to the face of the cavalryman, who came from the great 
land over in the northwest beyond the sea, and they grew 
more lustrous with tears. 

Then the two talked in Spanish for many minutes. 
Something that was in the heart of the tall trooper — 
something which shone out of his eyes — soothed the sor- 
row of the poor Porto Rican as he told the story of 
Toreador, the game one, and of Marie, who lived with her 
mother away up toward the great white cliffs. 

And one time Silk Redmond had to turn his face away 
so the other might not see that something which was 
in his eyes, for it was something which did not look well 


The Wooing of Benito. 75 

in the eyes of a big cavalryman. Before leaving the shack 
Silk Redmond spoke these words in Spanish : 

“Look pleasant, and do as I say, and we’ll manage 
about the senorita. Meet me half way up the trail to- 
morrow at two. Fasten a grin on your face now, even if it 
is painful, and go to sleep. I’ll do the rest, and don’t let 
that bag of money go kicking around any old trail. Keep 
close to that and the grin, and I’ll make you the man of 
that shack up there where Marie and her old woman 
live.” 

A half-hour later the tall trooper had stolen past the 
guard and crawled into his bunk. Then he lighted a very 
black pipe and began to think of young men and maid- 
ens, light and dark. And back in the college town one of 
the young lady students tore up a letter addressed to a 
big soldier, because the last page had wet spots upon it. 

For six afternoons Redmond met the Porto Rican and 
stood over him while the latter choked down great quan- 
tities of manhood in the form of army rations. 

“Get outside of those beans, they’ll make a man of you. 
Assimilate that hunk of sow-belly, it’ll sparkle in your 
blood.” These remarks dropped out with puffs from a 
very black pipe. 

On the sixth day Redmond brought with him a cake 
of “government bouquet” and a clean shirt. Then he 
administered unto Benito a thorough scrubbing down in 
the Corizel, and finally groomed him up nicely in the shirt 
of army blue. Puffing meanwhile, the tall trooper sur- 


76 The Wooing of Benito. 

veyed his job and was satisfied. That evening the two 
walked together on the trail toward the highland shack. 

And there was the same old smile for Benito. He had 
a well-fed, natty look, which surprised her. Silk Red- 
mond was silent through the heavy effort of his brain. 

‘^The American el capitan is a mighty man,’' he sug- 
gested finally. Benito and Marie were of the same opin- 
ion. Then the tall trooper took Marie out into the moon- 
light and told her many things which we all know. Mean- 
while Benito clung to his grin and money-bag, and shed 
abroad mild Spanish commonplaces for the benefit of 
Marie’s old mother. 

'‘The American el capitan has made up his mind,” con- 
tinued Redmond, once more in the shack, “that Benito, 
my friend, has arrived at sufficient property and years, to 
hitch his fortunes to some pretty senorita. The captain 
has appointed me to pick out the maid.” The tall trooper 
said all these things in Spanish. 

“I have written concerning the matter to my wife,” he 
resumed, seriously. The immensity of his fabrications 
tickled his throat. Marie puckered up her red lips re- 
proachfully. “My wife, who is a very learned woman, 
says that Benito and Marie are twin souls, and so it must 
be. I will leave you now, my children ” 

Benito clutched at a grin, but it was a pathetic one, 
and with hands that trembled, he placed the bag of silver 
pesos in the lap of his twin soul. The little maiden 
pouted at the tall trooper as he disappeared. 

Before the night that Silk Redmond sank down pn his 


The Wooing of Benito. 


77 


bunk with deathly pains in his head and back, he had the 
satisfaction to learn from Benito’s own lips that Toreador, 
the game one, would shortly be moved up to the shack in 
the shadow of the great white cliffs. 

Not many days afterward the troop commander tele- 
graphed back to the States that Private Redmond was 
lying very low with smallpox. That very night, the girl 
who lived in the college town wrote a long letter to her 
big trooper. There were wet spots on every page, but 
she sent it, anyway. 

And that letter was read to the sick soldier by a com- 
rade in the hospital corps six days afterward. It made 
the tall trooper feel so strong that he lit a very black pipe 
for the first time in many days. 

And now Toreador drowses in the darkness and dreams 
of the battles he has won, in the shack of Marie and Be- 
nito, far up on the trail. And in the evening the old 
mother of them both sits in the doorway, biding her time, 
while the tiny Corizel tinkles on its way to join the Rio 
Grande. 





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Two Women and a Soldier. 






TWO WOMEN AND A SOLDIER. 


When you see a man of wit, culture and intelligence 
in an awkward cavalry squad, learning the rudiments of 
military symmetry, you may rest assured that a story 
lurks behind his enlistment — that is, if the arts of peace 
predominate in his land at the time. There are various 
reasons why men enter the regular service. Chiefly among 
these is the desire to live by as little work as possible, 
and no worry. There are other men, of course, whose 
personality has become odious in certain sections of the 
country. These are not worried in the service, because 
a soldier is judged by his animal worth, and not by the 
enduring quality of his moral instinct. . . . You 
would not find another like Venning in the cavalry. 

In a quiet way he showed his educational attainments. 
To every man in the troop he also revealed a courtesy 
which was high and inborn. Inasmuch as the new trooper 
possessed the form of a Spartan warrior, and a face such 
as the Greeks loved to picture for their gods, his fellow 
cavalrymen bore with his infirmities of gentle breeding. 

Earth is considerably remote from some stars. The 
distance is not greater, however, than the distinction so- 


82 


Two Women and a Soldier. 


cially between an enlisted man and a commissioned officer 
of a troop. The fact is well kno\/n that it is a breach 
of military etiquette for an officer to affiliate with a man 
in the ranks. It is infinitely worse than a breach for an 
oflicer^s daughter to do this. 

Unfortunately, the laws of nature are mightier than 
army regulations, and ever since the world has been made 
merry and sad by human attachments, young girls have 
become desperate over handsome men. 

Captain Bishop, the troop commander, was one of the 
best pistol shots and one of the worst drunkards in the 
army. Very natural it was for such a man to have a 
pretty daughter. It was very natural, also, for Private 
Venning to be chosen orderly the first time he mounted 
guard. His hose and equipments were perfect ; his cloth- 
ing was new and fitted him; in short, he was the best 
looking soldier in the detail. And the best looking sol- 
dier is usually chosen for orderly. 

Now, it is the duty of the orderly to shadow his com- 
manding officer, to keep his chest thrown out, his chin 
drawn in, and his mouth shut — ^and to obey orders until 
relieved. Among other minor things which Venning did 
the next day was to stand ^*at attention’’ for four hours 
in a downtown cafe, while old Bishop waxed con- 
vivial toward himself and lenient toward men and things. 
During the last hour the troop commander became so 
popular that he felt called upon to buy drinks for every- 
body in the house, with the exception of his orderly, 
of course. It would be decidedly unsoldierly for an offi- 


Two Women and a Soldier. 83 

cer to drink in the same place with his orderly. Old 
Bishop was never unsoldierly. 

The result was that Venning became ugly and white; 
in the first place, because a deep gash was rent in his 
pride, and, secondly, because he lost his supper. All of 
which shows he was not cut out for a common soldier. 
Had Venning possessed the proper spirit of an orderly, 
he would have rejoiced over his dry outing, and been 
proud that his captain trusted him to the extent of dis- 
playing his weaknesses before him. It can be readily 
seen how culture and education spoils the good soldier 
in a man. Finally, Venning received the barely articulate 
order to take his captain back to the post. There was 
a look upon his handsome face which was far from 
agreeable while the orderly helped his superior officer 
into a cab. 

There had been no Mrs. Captain Bishop since Nellie’s 
mother died, happy in her husband’s oath of a reforma- 
tion, immediate and absolute. Nellie was the pretty 
daughter. 

It was quite late when the sentry at the entrance 
of the post grounds challenged the carriage. At 
this time Venning’s military training only covered a pe- 
riod of six weeks, and it is not wonderful that he forgot all 
about it, when the dark-eyed young woman whom he had 
often seen on parade grounds tripped through the vesti- 
bule to the front door of the Bishop residence, where he 
was standing. 

‘T am Orderly Venning, Miss Bishop,” he said slowly. 


84 


Two Women and a Soldier. 


‘The captain is in the carriage. If you will show me 
where his apartments are, I will help him there.'' 

“Oh!" This was all that the orderly heard from the 
young lady’s lips. Many elements were in her mind that 
moment. The splendid soldier whom she had so often 
thought about was before her. It was late. There was 
no one but the servants in the house, and they were 
asleep. She understood thoroughly the condition of her 
father. Being an officer's daughter, she realized fully the 
indignity to which this man had been subjected. She 
felt too degraded for herself to pity Venning. His voice 
thrilled in her ears. She was a very young woman. 

Venning, the cavalryman, would have been a far dif- 
ferent fellow from Venning, the civilian, had he failed 
to understand the pressure of the moment. He thought 
of a couple of circumstances which occurred when he was 
not clothed in army blue. He thought of a bitter lesson 
he had learned from a woman, who was neither so young 
nor so innocent as the maiden who stood in the dimly 
lighted vestibule. He thought how sweet and dainty the 
captain’s daughter looked. He was tingling still from 
the shame in the cafe. Venning never was a saint. He 
had been a wooer many times, a student all his life, and a 
gentleman at all times. He was very human, however. 
He knew what was possible. 

Captain Bishop was in a deep and noisy sleep. Nor 
was he disturbed in any way when the orderly lifted him 
from the carriage to his apartments. The young woman 


Two Women and a Soldier. 85 

led the way. Shame flushed her cheeks, and sorrow was 
in her dark eyes. And Venning pitied her. 

“I will see that everything is cared for,” he said, “and 
I trust you believe. Miss Bishop, that no one will hear of 
this.” 

She hastened down the stairway. Her hands trembled 
and her eyes were very bright. This man talked to her 
as an equal, she thought. He had such white, refined 
hands — such a noble face! And his voice was so soft 
and rich! Surely he was a good man and worthy, in 
spite of army rules. Why should she be above anybody, 
with a father like that — upstairs ? And Miss Bishop felt 
an ominous smarting in her eyes, caused by all these 
thoughts. Suddenly she remembered something and 
sped into the kitchen. 

Meanwhile the captain was disrobed by his orderly, 
who had performed similar attentions to many of his 
friends in civilian days, and knew the trick. His superior 
officer was at length adjusted comfortably in his proper 
place, and there was a queer smile upon the face of Ven- 
ning. 

“What an old beast you are!” he muttered. “How 
easily could I make you suffer for what you have done 
this night — if I cared to !” 

He turned the gas down low, and tip-toed to the stair- 
way. There he paused, listening. The thoughts in his 
mind could not be described. He descended whistling, 
which^was hardly relevant. 

“Orderly!” The voice reached him from behind the 


86 


Two Women and a Soldier. 


drawn shades of the dining room. It was the voice of a 
young woman who is not certain that she is acting with 
judgment. The word she had uttered filled Venning with 
thoughts which pained. For an instant he had forgot- 
ten that he was his captain's valet. The young woman 
advanced timidly toward him. 

That night, after the cavalryman had supped and de- 
parted, Miss Bishop crept into her father’s room. The 
gas had been lowered until its light did not equal the 
blaze of a match. The captain was deeply unconscious. 
Everything in the room was in perfect order. 

“Oh, that he should have to do such things for you,” 
murmured the young woman. Five minutes afterward 
she was locked in her own apartments. 

Meanwhile Venning slipped past the sentries, and up 
the iron stairway of the barracks to his cot. He stood 
in the dark by the window rolling a cigarette. Over in 
the captain’s quarters, across the parade grounds, a light 
was still shining upstairs. It was not in the captain’s 
room. When the cigarette was so short that it burned 
Venning’s fingers :he light still shone in the officer’s resi- 
dence. And so Trooper Venning met the daughter of his 
troop commander. 

Four months later the command received orders to re- 
pair at once to a point of embarkation. American soldiers 
were needed to simplify certain matters in Cuba. Al- 
most every day in those four months Venning had re- 
ceived a letter, addressed in a woman’s hand. Its post- 
mark bore the name of a Northern city. 


Two Women and a Soldier. 87 

In the deep shadow of an unused building, on the even- 
ing before the cavalrymen left for the front, there came 
to the daughter of Venning’s troop commander a sorrow 
deep and lasting. 

The captain was at the officers’ club-rooms with the 
other commissioned men. The barracks was brilliantly 
lighted, and from its open windows Venning and the 
maiden could hear the songs of the soldiers. The night 
before men leave for the front they are always merry — 
as an aeronaut is before swinging off — ^because crowds 
are watching. The cavalryman and captain’s daughter 
stood together at the wall of an old deserted barracks. 
Above them a great tree whispered and sighed. The 
man was vaguely conscious of the silent suffering in the 
dark eyes of the girl — of her face which was white with 
pain. He was conscious, too, of the moveless chill which 
filled his breast; but, more than all, he felt a moral 
strength in his brain which was strange and new. In 
the branches above them there was a music, low and 
mournful. 

'Xittle girl,” said the trooper, ‘T do not know what 
has come over me. Somehow, I am a different fellow 
to-night. If I had felt like this before I would never 
have been a cavalryman, because I could have done no 
wrong. . . . There, there, Nellie. I do not mean to 

grieve you through any stories of those other days. 
. . . I never thought I could hate myself so intensely 

for them! 

‘T feel too black, little girl, to be near you to-night. 


88 


Two Women and a Soldier. 


I cannot help it. There was a time when I laughed at 
anybody who spoke of a love, strong and sweet and pure. 
A man who sears and bruises his conscience for years 
cannot tear the callous off in a night. I must be good! 
I must do something hard I I must get away from Ven- 
ning, the animal 

The young woman’s head drooped toward the ground. 
The man raised it gently with both his hands upon her 
cheeks. His whole body seemed to be strained and tense 
in his effort to control the trembling of his nerves. Only 
a broken whisper came from his throat now. 

“To-morrow we leave,” he continued. “I will not 
write to you yet. I may never come back to this post 
or where you are. Little girl, I want you to be the same 
sweet and pure Nellie who made a man like me love you, 
and who made a man like me say such things as I have 
said this night. And remember, had I not spoken such 
words, my feelings would not be akin to the love which 
is sacred and beautiful. . . . And, Nellie, when I 

am man enough, you — shall — know — it !” 

The branches of the great tree above them slowly 
swayed in the night breeze, and their shadowy deeps were 
full of sighings. The man and the maiden still lingered. 
There is silence when hearts are speaking. The man 
dared not touch his lips to those of the maiden, for his 
strength was only human. The voices of the soldiers in 
the barracks seemed far away now, and their laughter 
was hushed. At last there floated out with the radiance 
from the windows the strains of a mighty melody. The 


Two Women and a Soldier. 89 

voices of men, great and deep and vibrant with soul, were 
raised in the hymn which soldiers love — “God Be With 
You Till We Meet Again !” 

And that night, in his cot, Venning smoked many 
cigarettes, and hoped that his troop would encounter 
fierce action, bloody action, and much of it ! 

The pitiless Cuban sunshine was beating down from the 
sky; and from the block-house on top of the hill death 
flashed and screeched out of hot, dusty Mauser barrels. 
A wavering line of blue gasped in the heat and choked 
in the dust, but pushed upward toward the block-house — 
falling, cursing, crawling, but always upward! Squares 
of army blue cloth hung upon the barbed entanglements 
on the hillside; and dark little men with haggard faces 
and a strange language were prone in the trenches with 
the soldiers of a Northern land. And to those men who 
laid side by side in the trenches, international war had 
lost its consequence. 

When the afternoon was dimmed by the deepening 
twilight, the block-house on the top of the hill had 
changed hands. And the soldiers from the Northern land 
who held it now were still panting from the greatness of 
the deed. And when the twilight was darkened by the 
tropical evening, the Red Cross men lighted their lan- 
terns and crept about the trenches, peering everywhere 
for warmth and life. 

Among those whom they found who were not cold was 
Trooper Venning. 


90 Two Women and a Soldier. 

Far below in the valley glinted the lights of Santiago, 
and upon the hill an American battery was placing its 
guns. To-morrow those guns would be uncased, and 
their gaping mouths would roar for cannon meat. They 
would dictate to the city down in the valley to-morrow. 

When a man has only the life of a baby in his body, 
when most of his blood and all his passion has trickled 
out through a wound, and breathing is a burden because 
he is so weary — then one’s whole sense is that of con- 
science, and one’s brain gropes about among things un- 
seen. Before Venning slept that night he saw one bright 
spot standing out from the gloom of the days he had 
lived. He had been a wooer many times, but he had only 
loved once. He had thought that purity and truth in a 
woman’s mind were only for the dreams of softer mo- 
ments. But the innocence of a young girl had revealed 
to him that a mind can be human and beautiful as well. 

As the wounded cavalryman lay in the darkness hardly 
breathing, many ideas, long latent, were revealed to him. 
He knew that the impulse of sacrifice, which he had acted 
upon the last evening at the post, was worthy of every 
atom of a man. He learned that in the love which man’s 
God smiles upon there is often a sacrifice, sad but just. 
Before he slept that night he knew that he had done 
what was best by the daughter of his captain. Against 
this one action there hung in the balance the whole life 
of a man of passion. Whether it was the years or the 
deed of a moment which was found wanting only Ven- 
ning and his Judge knew, but the sleep which came to the 


Two Women and a Soldier. 91 

wounded soldier that night on San Juan Hill brought 
peace and strength. 

A month afterward Venning was much stronger. He 
was in a big army hospital back in the States. His face 
had always been one which a woman would remember. 
It was handsome still, but white and drawn from suffer- 
ing. 

A well-dressed woman was just stepping out of the of- 
fice at the entrance of the hospital grounds. She would 
have attracted a man’s eye anywhere. She was the same 
who had written to Venning so many times, since he had 
been a soldier — the same who had caused him to become 
one. A younger woman dressed in black and carrying a 
hand-satchel entered the office at this moment. The one 
who had just stepped out heard the other inquire timidly: 

“Can you tell me what ward Private Venning is in?” 

The older woman quickened her steps toward one of 
the large tents at the far end of the grounds. Not long 
afterwards she was sitting by the side of Venning’s cot, 
holding the soldier’s hand. The man’s eyelids were 
closed ; the woman could hear him breathe. She believed 
that he was very weak still. 

^^How did you get away?” Venning asked. His throat 
was dry and his words hoarsely uttered. 

“He at last concluded that wfe were not for each other. 
He was very gentlemanly about it — ^poor Teddy. You 
are all mine now. Mister Soldier.” The woman was smil- 
ing merrily. 

“Do you mean that he has ?” 


92 


Two Women and a Soldier. 


^‘Don’t you dare to use that ugly word!’^ she inter- 
rupted. The afternoon was warm and the flags of the 
tent were hung back. The sunlight rested upon the cov- 
erlet of Venning’s cot and buried itself in the yellow hair 
of the woman. She placed her hand tenderly upon the 
soldier’s forehead. His lips were white and smileless. 
There was silence for a moment. 

“Has any other woman visited you here ?” 

The cavalryman opened his eyes quickly. There was 
pain in them, which the woman thought the wound 
caused. 

“No other woman has visited me here.” 

“Oh, how ill you are still, my poor soldier! Tell me, 
tell me at once if you are sorry I came to you !” 

The man did not answer at once. His eyes were closed. 
He was silently suffering. 

“I thought,” the woman said slowly, “I thought that 
when you got your sick furlough we would ” 

The face of the younger woman was at the far end of 
the tent. Her dark, wide-open eyes mirrored the suffer- 
ing which was in her soul. For a moment she stood 
there — the only girl who had ever sounded the depths in 
the nature of her father’s orderly. 

And the woman who sat by Venning’s side saw the look 
which was upon the face of the maiden, and she leaned 
her face down close to that of the wounded cavalryman, 
so that he might not also see. Then she smiled sweetly, 
for she had long since mastered the mysteries of maiden 


Two Women and a Soldier. 93 

hearts. Daintily she pressed a kiss upon the white lips 
of the soldier. 

And when the woman raised her head the maiden in 
the opening was gone. 

The nurse was taking the temperature of a fever pa- 
tient in the farther end of the tent. 





“ Don’t touch him.” It was a squaw’s voice. 








*'V* S 

f\' » , 



Red Brennan of the Seventh. 






RED BRENNAN OF THE SEVENTH, 


Dad Evans told the tale. He is an old cavalryman, 
born with a saddle between his thighs — a soldier by tem- 
perament and a man instinctively. Old Dad has served 
thirty years, but he was so miserable away from the troop 
that they took him back in spite of his dimmed eyes and 
chalky joints. 

Rebellion memories are rampant in Dad Evans’ mind. 
He was a tough little bow-legged cavalryman then. A 
dozen Indian fights are shown on his discharge papers. 
And then he was one of those boys who left their horses 
back in the States and pushed up the sand-soaked hills in 
front of Santiago, the once coveted. 

But there is one scene which Old Dad’s eyes looked 
upon when they were not dim — a scene which appears 
again when his pipe is lit and his bunk is comfortable — a 
scene and a story, which Dad Evans does not tell except 
at the canteen, when his month’s pay flows with his 
words. 

Then he will tell you about Rain-in-the-Face, the ugliest 
of the Sioux, and the craftiest of red men, and about the 
deserter from the ranks of Uncle Sam’s horsemen who 
was chained to him. He will tell you how Indians fight. 


98 


Red Brennan of the Seventh. 


how impish was the fury of their squaws, how terrible 
their numbers. And all cavalrymen forget the glasses in 
their hands while Dad Evans tells how the field looked, 
when he helped to bury the dead of Custer’s band way 
out in Montana on that hot June day. 

Ask any old cavalryman what kind of a fellow was the 
Michigan man whom the Sioux called Yellow Hair. He 
was a soldier they will say, not an indulgent officer, but 
one who feared nothing living or dead. It was Custer 
who declared : 

“Give me my regiment and I will lick the whole Sioux 
Nation.” 

Custer was tingling to make his name illustrious when 
he uttered those words. He was confident, experienced — 
a soldier born. He did not think then that his regiment 
of horsemen would ever be called the “Unlucky Seventh.” 
But all this has been committed to memory by school chil- 
dren. Here is the story of Red Brennan, deserter, once 
in I troop of Custer’s command, and long since dead — the 
story which Dad Evans tells. It is a true story, for Dad 
Evans, who saw it enacted, says so. 

Brennan was a bad man. His worst enemies were 
whisky and himself. His bunk was deserted one morn- 
ing at reveille roll-call, and his troop was detached to hunt 
him up. The boys found him in a cave, to which they 
were led by an Indian scout. Brennan was helplessly 
obfuscated, probably through the medium of unmellowed 
corn- juice. The Indian scout shuffled about the cave feel- 
ing and smelling things. There were puzzling circum- 


Red Brennan of the Seventh. 99 

stances about. Some one had been in the cave with Bren- 
nan, but the identity of this party was an opaque mystery. 
Nothing but a can of bear's grease was found. Squaws 
make their braids shiny with bear’s grease. A soldier 
suggested that Kate Poison- Water had perhaps taken 
Brennan for her paramour. 

When the prisoner staggered out of stupor, he was 
chained to Rain-in-the-Face, sub-chief of the Sioux. At 
first he uttered a series of ejaculations that would have 
plunged an army mule into hysterics. 

Kate Poison- Water w'as a sort of De Stael among the 
Sioux. She was a serpent in cunning, a tigress in 
strength and agility — a Sioux squaw in general deviltry. 
It developed that Rain-in-the-Face knew her. 

Custer was in a land ridden with red men. He had no 
near reserve. It was not a time for courtmartials. Red 
Brennan ate and slept, but did not become chummy with 
the rising buck. They were together until the day when 
Reno took part of the regiment and branched off to the 
south. Rain-in-the-Face was taken with Reno, while 
Brennan rejoined his troop in Custer’s division. It is 
needless to say in whose command was Dad Evans, for 
had he not been with Reno he would never have sipped 
canteen beer and told stories these times, nor would he 
have climbed Cuban hills under Mauser fire. 

The guard in charge of the Sioux prisoner was mur- 
dered in the night. It was done so quietly that the sentry, 
walking his post fifty yards away, heard no sound and 


ICX> 


Red Brennan of the Seventh. 


saw nothing. Then Dad Evans told of a way the body 
was mutilated — so horrible were his words that we turned 
away shuddering. 

“Only a squaw does the trick,” Evans explained. “We 
thought Kate Poison- Water had made possible the escape 
of Rain-in-the-Face, because of the manner of the deed. 
This idea grew upon us. Meanwhile, that day of history 
dawned.” 

Custer’s command was four miles from Reno’s camp. 
Every trooper felt that there were hordes of red men in 
the surrounding foothills. Not a white man guessed their 
numbers. The Indian scouts were puzzled by cross trails. 
They hugged the vanguard and could not be pushed 
ahead. The troopers were attentive and quiet. No jests 
were exchanged that morning. The sun rose high and 
hot. The wind blew strong and fitfully. No steady or 
rapid firing was distinguishable from any direction. 
Reno’s division formed skirmish lines. No. 4 in each set 
stayed back with the horses. Ragged volleys were poured 
down upon them from rocks and woody places. Few of 
the fours lived when the sun’s rays were slanting that 
afternoon. Camp was struck at sundown. No bacon 
sputtered in the mess tins, and weary soldiers rolled them- 
selves in their blankets without a smoke that night. The 
Red Cross men did not sleep. 

No one believed the courier who rode into camp before 
midnight, with the word that Custer and all his band had 
been slain that day by the Sioux, and that their bodies 
lay scattered about in the moonlight four miles away. 


Red Brennan of the Seventh. loi 

Before daybreak Reno's men were on the march. The 
silence in front was deathly and ominous. Wary and 
cautious was the advance. The weird, crooning mono- 
tone of the Indian death song was not heard, nor were 
cross trails encountered this day. The turf was marked 
with mute indications of a hasty flight. The scouts hugged 
closely the forward fours. The silence frightened them. 
An odor was in the air which they alone distinguished. 
White men cannot use their noses like animals. 

The body of a trooper, gashed, perforated and dismem- 
bered, was strewn across the line of march. Hard and 
unsmiling were the faces of Reno's cavalrymen now. 
Signals from high points brought back no answer from 
Custer's corps. The troops paused again to cover up red 
stains upon the earth. The words of the courier were 
now partially believed. Great and awful thoughts were 
crawling into the soldiers' minds. Where was Yellow 
Hair, the intrepid, the invincible ? Where were the friends 
of yesterday ? 

More blood in the path. Tainted was the air that men 
breathed and ghastly white their faces. 

A low hill stretched before them. Upon its summit 
shimmered the pitiless heat. Flies buzzed about the 
sweating horses, and great, black birds made circling 
shadows beyond the hill. 

Soldiers tried not to breathe the sickening air, yet they 
advanced. Horror and fascination enthralled them. 
Countless red devils might be marshaling in the surround- 
ing hills, yet the most despicable of cowards would have 


102 Red Brennan of the Seventh. 

pressed upward that day. Still persons claim to be above 
that curiosity which is morbid. The vanguard rode upon 
the summit of the hill and looked down. 

For a moment all that could be heard was the droning 
of the myriad insect wings. Then to the ears of the rear 
troopers was borne the murmur of curses deep and dread- 
ful. 

From every bush arrows had whizzed down upon that 
plain. From behind every rock and tree a crouching 
Sioux had glared through the smoke of powder. Squads 
of painted, yelling, exultant fiends had ridden down every 
passable place on the hills — yesterday. 

And when the braves had left no horse or horseman 
standing, young bucks trampled the white faces into the 
earth and fired into the prone bodies. And when their 
voices were hoarse and broken, and their demon desires 
satiated, the hideous, mumbling squaws, more inhuman 
than any in venomous hate, had stripped the suits of army 
blue from the boys no longer in Uncle Sam's service. 
Then, in hellish ecstasy, they used their knives. 

Meanwhile the braves wrapped up their dead in blankets 
and tied them in the branches of larger trees. Not until 
the sunset land was growing dim did the red men face 
toward it and disappear. They were very happy. 

Reno's cavalrymen looked down. Great, black birds 
rose and hovered over the plain. The sky above the hills 
was dotted with others — coming. Dad Evans will never 
forget that day. 

Not a vestige of individuality remained with the dead 


Red Brennan of the Seventh. 103 

i-pon the plain. There was not a scalp— not a form left 
intact, save two. So diabolical was the work that it 
seemed as if the devil in a black humor had directed it. 
Dad Evans told things that would not do here. 

In the centre of the plain they found a prone body that 
had not been stripped or mutilated. The broad yellow 
stripe of a cavalry officer was upon the trousers. An of- 
ficer's blouse covered the face. The Sioux warriors had 
crossed the sleeves as a sign that the body should be 
spared. The blouse was lifted and then the men saw the 
bold, lean face of their commanding officer. The cheek 
was pressed down, and the long, light brown curls clus- 
tered about it. Not a hair was touched, not a weapon 
taken. 

The Sioux braves feared the living Yellow Hair. They 
revered him dead. It was a moment of delicate mystery. 
Thus it was that his own men found Custer, the soldier 
from Michigan. And not long afterward a little Mich- 
igan town was shrouded in crepe. The black draperies 
have been lifted these many years, but its sable shadow 
still rests in the hearts of the people. 

Not a scalp was left save two. There was another. 

“Don^t touch him V* It was a squaw’^^s voice. She was 
wounded, crazed, dying. She raised her body on one 
hand and fought off Reno's cavalrymen. Below her was 
another body with sleeves crossed. It was all that re- 
mained of Red Brennan, deserter, and the dying squaw, 
Kate Poison- Water, was fighting for it. 

Side by side almost lay the commanding officer and 


104 Brennan of the Seventh. 


the man from the ranks, a deserter once. These alone 
out of many troops had been untouched by the Sioux 
squaws. 

Kate Poison-Water slew the guard and released Rain- 
in-the-Face, the soldiers say, so that the sub-chief might 
have Red Brennan spared in the projected attack. None 
but the Great Spirit, however, could have saved Red 
Brennan that day. 

Yes, the Sioux was a happy nation when they re- 
treated. Their craft was not forgotten and the trails di- 
verged. One was two miles wide. What squadron of 
cavalry could follow such a trail ? 

Rain-in-the-Face, sub-chief of the victorious Sioux, 
lived to glower into the faces of distinguished Eastern 
audiences. 

And old Dad Evans, who helped to bury the dead 
among feasting vultures on that hot June day, still sips 
canteen beer and tells stories. 





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A Soldier of Misfortune. 





A SOLDIER OF MISFORTUNE. 


Nobody loved Duffie. Anyway not until he went to 
Porto Rico. None of the boys cared a rap for him even 
then. Yet Duffie was a good soldier — 3 , man who is al- 
ways sober enough to answer calls, keep his equipments 
polished, and his face shaved is a good soldier. At 
least from an officer’s point of view, and that’s what 
counts. But like many another choice spirit. Private Duf- 
fie was totally devoid of those twin faculties, which show 
off one’s better side and make friends. And since this 
trooper possessed the added misfortune of being ugly to 
look upon, his fellow soldiers took no trouble to sound 
him for a better side. 

Duffie had never been able to say the proper thing at 
the proper time, so he did what was next best — kept his 
mouth shut. This became a habit with him in early life. 
Now a silent man is not wanted for a '‘bunkie” in Uncle 
Sam’s cavalry. 

Duffie gambled also — 3 soldierly trait, and one which 
would hurt no man’s reputation in his troop, but since he 
won calmly, steadily and silently, he was not asked to sit 
at every pay-day game. Next to Duffie’s silence, his worst 


no A Soldier of Misfortune. 

trait in the trooper’s eyes was that he did not spend his 
gains. 

And the natural sequence of all these things was that 
not one of his eighty-odd fellows shed tears when Duffie 
left the troop with his final statements in his pocket, and 
a record of thirteen years in the service — thirteen honest, 
faithful, clean years. It was not until Duffie and his 
bundle were lost in the coffee shrubs which bordered the 
trail down into Corizel that the troop clerk told one of the 
sergeants that Duffie’s final statements called for a cool 
thousand, Americano Diner o. When the men heard this 
they told each other that they were well rid of Duff, his 
“system,” his silence, and his “ugly phiz.” 

As a matter of fact, Duffie’s gambling methods were as 
honest as his clear, gray eyes. And if his other two five- 
year enlistments had been looked up his old fellows 
would have said that he quit their outfits with only a 
month’s pay in his clothes; and that he was as hopeless 
a drunkard and as reckless a spender as any good trooper 
is supposed to be. They would say, too, that he left few 
friends and no debts behind. 

Duffie, walking down the trail, communed with him- 
self and was not unhappy. On his discharge paper, after 
the printed word “character” his captain had written 
“excellent,” and the troop physician had scrawled the same 
word after “physical condition when discharged.” 
By the paper we might learn also that his hair was red, 
his eyes gray and his age thirty-five. And everybody 


A Soldier of Misfortune. 


Ill 


knows that Duffie upon showing his discharge, could re- 
enlist in any outfit in the service. 

This wasn't his idea. He had money. He vowed that 
he would touch no drink until he reached the States — 
hence he would have money then — enough to be a civilian. 
But there was a secret in the brain of the discharged 
cavalryman that day — a pleasant, thrilling secret, more 
important by far than the finals which would be cashed in 
San Juan, more important than the captain’s estimate of 
his character. It was the secret which creeps into the 
brain and heart of every soldier some day; and many 
are the army men who would have died in the Soldiers’ 
Home were it not for its spell. 

Now any person who has been in Porto Rico will tell 
you that the native senoritas have wonderful eyes. The 
American soldier who did not become impressed with 
this fact during his first hour on shore, was either on 
sick report at the time or else he landed in the night. A 
close observer will tell you also that the wonderful eyes 
of the Porto Rican senoritas dwell lingeringly upon the 
length and breadth and toughness of American manhood 
clad in army blue. All of which couldn’t be otherwise. 

The point is that Senorita Euphrasie, the dark, delicate 
and dreamy-eyed, should look into the plain face of 
Trooper Duffie, and care to look again. This was strange, 
certainly. Perhaps the Corizel maiden saw something in 
those clear, gray eyes which no American woman, save 
the mother of her boy, had ever seen ; something which 
no fellow-trooper cared to know about, since Duffie was 


1 13 A Soldier of Misfortune. 

too clumsy of speech to speak what was in him. Gradu- 
ally in the cavalryman's brain the secret grew. It impart- 
ed a sensation, which the lonely trooper never dreamed 
would come to him. For Duffie knew he was not hand- 
some to look upon. It made him feel less of a drunkard 
and more of a man. It made him hate the service in time 
of peace — a woman’s influence has done this ever since 
armies have been. In short, this secret buoyed up to sur- 
face water all the brighter, better elements in Duffle’s 
nature. And Senorita Euphrasie saw the brighter side, 
knew that it was for her — and was a very happy little 
maiden. 

Meanwhile Duffle’s halting tongue struggled with 
Spanish expressions, but her eyes told Euphrasie more 
which she wanted to know; and in her turn, Euphrasie 
repeated English words from the cavalryman’s lips — 
words which those lips had never uttered before. And 
the day drew nearer which would end Duffle’s ‘"soldier- 
ing” forever. 

The one desire of the discharged trooper as he descend- 
ed the trail into Corizel — apart from the will and pleasure 
of Senorita Euphrasie — was to see once more his native 
land. This is the heart’s desire of every trooper and in- 
fantryman in Porto Rico to-day ! That afternoon, when 
for the first time in three years he was a free man, Duffie 
told the Corizel maiden of the wonderful land over the 
sea, of the great cities, and of the white, frozen showers 
which fall in the Northland. He told her of his old 
mother who would love her, even as she loved her son. 


A Soldier of Misfortune. 113 

Poor Duffie did not know well of that which he spoke. 
And Euphrasie believed his words. She would have fol- 
lowed him through the dreariest of the world s distances— 
to his home. 

Duffie will never forget the enchantment of that night. 
Faintly from the quarters up the trail was home the bugle 
call for retreat. The man heard the distant scream of 
the trumpet, but he only held Euphrasie closer. It was a 
weird sensation for the soldier-no-longer. The sergeant 
would not call his name that night. Duffie’s heart held 
no regret — it held nothing that moment but the image of 
the woman into whose eyes he gazed, while the mount- 
ing moon scattered the twilight in the low southeast. How 
happy would those two have been if the man felt not the 
beckoning of his native shores, and the yearning of his 
mother’s heart ! 

The next day Euphrasie left Corizel and the orange- 
perfumed slopes — lingered one last moment to listen to 
the song of the mountain river, then journeyed thither 
toward San Juan — el capital — with her husband. 

A white man cannot disregard social usages where 
other white men are. No, not even if he is a self-support- 
ing institution. It matters not the slightest whether a 
man cares more for a look from his wife than for a grasp 
upon the throttle of the mammoth social engine. If Duffie 
had known the woes of the man who dares transgress 
upon unconventional boundaries — the woes of even a poor 
ex-soldier — he could not have been driven from the isl- 


1 14 A Soldier of Misfortune. 

and where there are few white people, and therefore few 
conventionalities. 

It was hardly a question of color, for Euphrasie was 
not dark. Indeed, had she possessed the power to sell the 
richness and softness from her skin, she would have 
realized enougn to live luxuriously for life. But Eu- 
phrasie wore no hat, only a shawl. Her gowns were 
very pretty for her own summer land, but they would 
not have suited an American woman. She spoke little 
English. But a thousand times worse than anything else 
— :she was the wife of a common enlisted man! And 
there were wives of commissioned officers on the trans- 
port! 

Everything was done so quickly in San Juan. A ship 
bound for the States was in the harbor. Before Duffie 
had cashed his finals, the sailing flag was hoisted. He 
had barely time to get his wife on board. He realized 
vaguely that Euphrasie needed woolen clothing and much 
of it, before leaving a tropical island for a land of winter.^ 
But how was he, who knew nothing which pertained not 
to an enlisted man^s life, supposed to realize in a moment 
that there are such things as officers’ wives and conven- 
tionalities on a transport? 

Euphrasie was a timid maiden. So many soldiers 
frightened her, and, worse than that, she perceived that 
her husband was uneasy, too. His knowledge of Spanish 
fled from him. 

And the American ladies up on the pure white bridge, 
&nd on the saloon deck, where none but the shoulder- 


A Soldier of Misfortune. 


115 

strapped and their ladies walked — these women turned 
their eyes from the Porto Rican city, which was vanish- 
ing behind harbor mists, and they saw the timid native 
maiden, shrinking close to the form of a big enlisted man, 
whose face was not pleasant. 

Then one of these American ladies voiced the senti- 
ments of the rest — God forgive them — and it was the 
master of the ship who was forced to hear her say that 
she would not eat at the same table with any native 
maiden; that she thought it was an outrage for an en- 
listed man to dare bring such a woman on a ship with 
American ladies ; that she for one would at least see that 
such a woman staid in the part of the ship she deserved. 
The captain of the ship, being a commissioned officer, the 
same as this lady's husband — well, what could he do but 
admire Duffie's good taste and refuse him a state-room 
for his wife? How could he furnish her meals the same 
as saloon passengers ? 

Far more than Euphrasie did the big ex-cavalryman, 
the silent man, suffer, because the Corizel maiden had to 
sleep down in the hammock-hold with the soldiers. Little, 
indeed, did she mind eating army rations, for women in 
her land eat little at best; but her husband's face grew 
white when he thought of all these things, and there was 
a nasty gleam in his gray eyes. 

In a canvas hammock, down in the dirty hold of a 
transport, surrounded by scores of men, rough and un- 
educated, lots of them — yet Euphrasie, the wife, was just 
as safe as she ever had been among her own native hills. 


ti6 


A Soldier of Misfortune. 


Yes, they were rough and uneducated, lots of them, but 
they were Americans and soldiers; and they had heard 
what the women up on the bridge had told the master 
of the ship. 

In the forward hold the men cursed carelessly and 
without restraint, cursed and gambled and sang soldier 
songs ; but in the rear, where Euphrasie was, they walked 
on tip-toe and talked in whispers while she slept. And the 
ex-cavalryman who loved her, thanked his fellows one 
and all with his eyes. The Porto Rican maiden was not 
among gentlemen — they were all upon the saloon deck 
with their ladies. Euphrasie’s companions were only a 
lot of common men from the ranks. 

Everybody knows what a winter gale off Hatteras is. 
The most treacherous bit of sea water on the Atlantic lies 
here. Vessels from tropical isles veer hundreds of miles 
seaward to avoid the Northern Carolina gales, and those 
who have lived long under a torrid sun shrink from the 
first blast of winter. Up on the bridge and saloon decks 
the American ladies, wrapped in furs, emerged from their 
state-rooms and set their faces toward the icy winds. And 
Euphrasie in her summer gowns shivered and coughed 
down in the chilly hold. 

Duffie would tell her that there was no winter in the 
great Southwest where his home was. And the dark, 
dreamy eyes of the Corizel maiden would grow wondrous 
bright when she heard her husband tell of his old mother, 
who would love her, an-l of the little store they would 


A Soldier of Misfortune. 


117 


start near some army post, and sell tobacco and cigarettes 
and other things the soldiers liked. When no one was 
looking Duffie would show his senora the great roll of 
American money, with which he would buy her warm 
clothing and lots of nice things in New York. There 
would be no cold or suffering for Euphrasie after that ! 

When the hammock shook with the maiden’s coughing, 
as the transport tumbled along the Northern Carolina 
coast, Duffie would wrap his big, yellow-lined cavalry 
overcoat more closely about her throat, and his face be- 
came more haggard and white, but there was naught but 
tenderness in his eyes now. Meanwhile, the gale grew 
noisy, and ice thickened on the hurricane deck. 

Two days’ run from New York, and there was a dark 
flush upon Euphrasie’s cheek. Her forehead was burning, 
and the soldiers stepped softly in the hold. And in the 
night the Porto Rican maiden clung fast to her husband’s 
hand, and murmured words about Corizel and love. There 
was a reddish glow in her dark eyes, like a flame shining 
through a black density of smoke. They were turned 
immovably upon the white, horrified face of her husband, 
and she spoke his name. 

About the time the ice-crusted ship was sighted off 
the Atlantic Highlands two fever convalescents died of 
pneumonia in the forward hold — died within sight of the 
land of their soldier dreams. 

And while the transport steamed around Sandy Hook 
the hand of the Porto Rican maiden slipped from Duffie’s 
grasp. 


A Soldier of Misfortune. 


ii8 

The commissioned officers stood by the vessel's side in 
the pier and kept the soldiers back until the American 
ladies had tripped down the gangway. And one of the 
ladies saw two gray eyes riveted upon her that wild win- 
ter's day. She remembered those eyes and the hideous 
pallor of the man's face for many long nights afterward, 
which was well. 

What Duffie did the next ten days any soldier will 
guess. At the end of that time he sent what money there 
was left to his old mother down in Texas. And not long 
after that he set out for the other side of the world to 
join his regiment in Manila. 

Such is the story of a flower from a summer land — a 
flower which withered beneath the icy breath. And the 
heart of Trooper Duffie, soldier of misfortune, withered 
with it. 






■1 


shadow and the Cherub. 







SHADOW AND THE CHERUB. 


The first time I saw Shadow was the night the Fifth 
pulled out for Porto Rico. Shadow was a dusky kid of 
quality, and he now wears a cavalryman's blouse and a 
shirt of army blue. How this came about involves the 
prejudices of a nation. 

Shadow was not old enough to be subservient. The 
knowledge that he was black had never hurt him yet. 
But his father was a son of slavery, and his father's 
father, so in Shadow's nature there was mildness and 
long-suffering, and in his back a bow to people with 
white faces. It was a bow, not a cringe — a pleasant sensa- 
tion of obeying, not fawning humility. 

But cavalrymen from the land where cotton blooms, 
and persimmon trees flourish in every strip of woodland, 
make no distinction. And many are the cavalrymen in 
Uncle Sam's service who hail from localities where 
negroes are hired now, and hated. But there are others 
who punched cattle and straddled cow-ponies west of the 
Mississippi and not so far south as the Rio Grande ; and 
others still who lived once where negroes are seldom 


124 


Shadow and the Cherub. 


seen, and are liked for their jollity and devil-take-care-of- 
to-morrow dispositions. And these took notice of Shadow 
in spite of black looks and murmurings. 

There was a funny twinkle in his dark eyes and a won- 
dering pucker in his full red lips. Old Chicken, the far- 
rier, first took him under his wing. It was the night be- 
fore leaving the States, and the regiment had been paid 
earlier in the day. 

Now every officer knows that a common soldier works 
with greatest dispatch and efficiency when broke. It was 
a grand demonstration of mettle that the cavalrymen gave 
that day. Each man assisted in pushing frightened and 
fractious horses up a steep gangway, and in loading moun- 
tains of heavy luggage on the transports for many hours 
— and all under the strain of a cavalryman's thirst with 
a month's pay in his pocket. 

Everything was ready when night came, except the 
blessed tide. It would be four hours at least, the sailors 
said, before the troop-ship dare cross the bar. Had it not 
been for this mysterious and accommodating element the 
Fiftn Cavalry would have lugged their whole month’s 
pay about cheerlessly throughout a long voyage. This 
would have been unprecedented. It would have been 
positively uncanny. 

‘Tt's dangerous to let them go,” one lieutenant said; 
*^some will never come back.” 

“Let them go,” said an old captain, who had risen from 
the ranks, and who was no stranger to pity. 


Shadow and the Cherub. 125 

"‘You ought to know, captain, how duty looks and time 
passes to a soldier on pay-day,” the lieutenant replied 
weakly. He was talking to his superior officer. 

“Let them go,” repeated the captain, and the boys 
went to town with money intact and great responsibilities 
tingling in their breasts. All came back save one, who 
was not a drinking man, and who had lost a sweetheart 
back in San Anton*, but not in Porto Rico. 

It was in those four hours that Old Chicken found 
Shadow. The first time I saw him was a half hour be- 
fore the time of embarkation. He was sitting in the dark- 
ness on the lee side of the great ship. Above him flick- 
ered meaningless lights and a shadowy mystery of ropes 
and rigging. Below him the chocolate-hued Savannah 
playfully slapped the big piers and the transport's plated 
sides. Beyond him lay the sea, trackless, dark and vast. 

Two large bottles of something protruded from 
Shadow’s blouse. Smaller bottles of something protrud- 
ed from Shadow’s many pockets. Hampers of other good 
things surrounded him; and, very strange to tell. Wild 
Bill, the most dissolute and prodigal of troop tom-cats, 
purred cozily upon his lap. 

But most inconceivable of all was the attitude of 
Cherub, the untamable — Cherub, the vicious and massive- 
jawed bloodhound — for several years a chattel of Troop 
K. Cherub’s hatred for civilians was depthless and 
dreadful. 

Then why should he put his great, ugly head upon 
Shadow’s lap and there rest so quietly and peaceably ? 


126 


Shadow and the Cherub. 


'*Yo an' me is dun 'guine to Porto Ric, an’ pussie-tom 
and Old Chick is dun ’guine. Doan’ shake yo’ big hade 
dat-a-way. I is aguine cos Old Chick dun sade I could. 
We alls ’guine to Porto Ric, and de horses.” 

Shadow’s head was very close to Cherub’s jaws while 
he was muttering these words. Then he began to croon 
a quaint melody which the Old Mammy days had left be- 
hind in his kinky head. Cherub yawned in lazy content- 
ment, Wild Bill purred hoarsely, and I watched, wonder- 
ing. 

Meanwhile the cavalrymen returned with laughter and 
great happiness. Then the big troop-ship cast her log and 
veered seaward. There were shouts but no sentiment. 
Good cavalrymen — the ones who win chevrons in their 
first enlistment — have no sentiment. A recruit possessed 
of sentiment will lose it in the first three months, or else 
apply for his discharge. 

There was much of this element in Shadow’s nature. 
The horsemen, with their spurs, six-shooters and sabers, 
made a deep impression. A queer, dreamy look was in 
his eyes as he gazed out to sea and hummed softly, while 
a tiny gale from the tropics zipped merrily by. The little 
dusky boy was glad that he met Old Chick, the farrier, 
glad that he was with such ‘^strong, big men” — vaguely 
glad that he lived. Cherub, the bloodhound, growled at 
the wind and glared at the sea and kept close to Shadow’s 
side. Wild Bill cuddled closely. 

‘'Here, nigger, take hold of this mop and scrub out. 


Shadow and the Cherub. 127 

That’s all you people are good for anyway. Grab a root, 
and grab it quick.” 

This was only part of what the sergeant from the South 
said the first morning out. The whole was more brutal. 
The sergeant was sick from the sea and sick from the 
night before on land. We, from the North, saw Shadow’s 
trouble and tried to put him right. But something went 
wrong in the dusky boy’s mind that morning which we 
could not put right. 

You have all read of transport horrors. Perhaps you 
have heard, too, of the sufferings of the splendid troop 
horses and about the troopers themselves on a voyage. 

Where the air is scented with sage brush and the eyes 
smart with alkali; from the blizzards of Dakota and the 
sun-baked plains of Texas — the cavalrymen come. They 
are landsmen. They march through dust-clouds and race 
through rainstorm, but they droop when on board a 
rolling ship. Their bowed legs fit equally well to the back 
of a mustang or a Wales, but they will not adjust them- 
selves to a swaying hurricane deck. 

Twenty feet below the surface of the sea are the air- 
tight and cold storage compartments. Other compart- 
ments, where hundreds of hammocks are swung in tiers, 
are above this. When the hatches are closed this second 
deck is also air-tight. Here 600 cavalrymen sleep. A 
sheet-iron flooring above them forms the bottom of the 
stables, and the steel-shod hoofs of the troop horses make 
a din for the ears of those below like that of many boiler 


128 


Shadow and the Cherub. 


factories. Another tier of horses, and then one sees the 
daylight and feels the ocean breeze. 

Ten hours in the black hole would kill horses and some 
people of olden times, but it only gives headaches to 
American cavalrymen. It was sad, though, to watch the 
men trying to put nerve and strength in the horses they 
loved — the drooping, dying troop-horses. It was very 
sad to see the animals hang their heads out into the 
draughtless passageway, and distend wider their crimson 
nostrils. Their eyes were filmy and opaque — very un- 
natural and pitiful, and their lower lips hung low and 
quivered on the fourth day out. 

Then the hoisting-gear became very busy, and men 
grew sick when they heard the rattle of loosening chains 
and so many loud splashes from the sea below. Five 
days out, and there was more room in the stables for the 
suffocating troop horses still on their feet. Their limbs 
were swollen now and stiff. The air in the stables was 
deathly and heavy. 

‘‘Another horse down !” cries the stable guard, and the 
hoisting-gear creaks again. 

A strange, ugly mood possessed Cherub, the blood- 
hound, these days. He refused food, and was often heard 
growling ominously from dark places. He occasionally 
walked the upper deck, but was a friend to no one except 
Shadow. Long after taps, when all save ship lights were 
out, and the cavalrymen swung and sweltered in their 
hammocks. Cherub was heard growling and skulking 
about in the darkness. And his eyes shone with a baleful 


Shadow and the Cherub. 


129 

glitter. Then Shadow would go to him, and for a time 
Cherub would rest. 

The dusky( boy was sad. The sentiment had been 
torn from him and an ugly wound was left behind. For 
the men from the North, Shadow would have been a 
martyr. The others he feared and tried bravely to serve. 

“Shadow’s no good on dis ship,” he said on the morn- 
ing of the fifth day. “We hated — can’t do right — pussy’s 
tom’s cross an’ Cherub’s crazy sick— ought to be back — 
wiv’ the niggers.” 

Many a sob with the preceding made it almost inco- 
herent. It was no morbid melancholy, but a helpless, 
hopeless expression of grief. No man would have smiled 
had he been present — poor little heartbroken Shadow ! 

Even as I was thinking of men, black and white, the 
souls unsoiled, my ears were filled with the roar of a 
brute. It came from the deck below. There was some- 
thing hideous and fear-inspiring about it. I never heard 
such a sound. Cherub never made such a sound before. 
Yet I knew it came from his throat. 

The cavalrymen lounging and laughing upon deck stood 
erect now and felt for the six-shooters in their belts. But 
the weapons were all stacked below in the hammock com- 
partment by special order. Again was heard the cry of 
a tortured beast. Shadow moved toward the sound very 
slowly. Soldiers and sailors were running and shouting 
on the deck below. 

“Cherub is mad ! Shoot the brute 1 Look out up there !” 


130 


Shadow and the Cherub. 


All these words we heard. Then Cherub dashed up the 
companionway, his chains dragging behind. His fangs 
were horrible to see. 

A sailor in his way was thrown over, and to-day there 
is an ugly scar on his throat. Others were bitten. Shadow 
was speaking in a low voice we could not understand. 
The bloodhound and the boy were close together. We, 
who were watching, shuddered. Slowly, cautiously, a 
dark hand moved out and grasped the chain. The red, 
flashing orbs of the brute lowered from Shadow^s gaze. 
We hoped no more when the bloodhound growled. 

Without haste, seemingly, the dark hand holding the 
chain moved toward the halyards. The fingers worked 
swiftly for a moment, but how long it seemed to us ! 

Then like a flash Shadow was beyond the length of the 
chain, and laughing like one whose nerve is gone. Cherub 
beat his body upon the deck and upon the halyards. 

We were in the tropics where there is no cure for 
canine madness ; Cherub did not roar or suffer long, and 
for him Shadow, who loved all things small and great, 
wept long. 

But out of that grief there came to the heart of the 
little dusky boy a joy sweet and lasting, for somehow the 
men from the South who stood upon the hurricane deck 
that day forgot pride and prejudice. 

And now the troop is scouring the mist-hung hills of 
Porto Rico — peering into caves, and searching lonely 
highland shacks — for Spaniards who were once soldiers 
and now guerrillas. 


Shadow and the Cherub. 13 1 

Shadow is with them, and there is not a horseman in 
the troop who would not charge through leaden hail to 
save him from harm. And only when the men talk of 
Cherub, the vicious and massive- jawed, does the darkey 
boy look away and seem unhappy. 


1 


j 


Back to San Anton’. 



BACK TO SAN ANTON’. 


Nobody thought that old Geldez would remember the 
thrashing Mulgowan gave him. Not a man in the troop 
would have given old Geldez credit for fiendish contriv- 
ings. It wasn’t because he was a drunken wretch and a 
beggar by nature that made the boys hate him. Old 
Geldez was a greaser, which implies everything weakly, 
malevolent and detestable, and it was said that he was in 
the habit of beating the little maiden of dark eyes who 
called him father. A civilian greaser was old Geldez — 
what could be more despised ? 

Yet many a pay-day would have known no muscal, and 
been correspondingly cheerless, had it not been for old 
Geldez, who often weighted his boat down with Mexican 
wines and paddled softly across the Rio Grande, with no- 
body watching but the moon, all of which is contrary to 
the laws of a mighty nation. It is true that the troopers 
paid many prices to the greaser, but muscal is cheap at 
any cost on pay-days. 

Now Mulgowan was a sergeant in rank, but at heart 
he was never anything but a private and the prince of 
good fellows. Because he could vault the highest horse 
in the troop and make no specialty of it ; because he could 


Back to San Anton’. 


136 

fight like a demon and yet did not make it a pastime, and 
because he was a wizard with a six-shooter and a whirl- 
wind with a saber, Mulgowan was a very popular cavalry- 
man. 

So when Geldez swore gruffly at the little maiden of 
dark eyes one pay-day, while the boys were drinking mus- 
cal in his place, Mulgowan was only praised because he 
kicked the greaser out of his own door. Indeed the boys 
were so facetious about the affair that Mulgowan felt 
called upon to crack a fresh bottle of wine. He filled all 
the glasses himself and then toasted the maiden of dark 
eyes with all the tenderness which much wine and natural 
gentility could put into words. 

About this time the ugly face of old Geldez peered 
through the window. It was so ugly in its pallid rage that 
Mulgowan^s hand felt instinctively for the six-shooter in 
his belt. It was so very ugly and white that the maiden 
of dark eyes threw her bare, brown arms about Mul- 
go wan’s neck and wept just as white women do. And 
then Mulgowan became very red because he did not know 
much about such proceedings, but he kissed the little Mex- 
ican maiden, after which another fellow cracked a bottle 
of wine. Meanwhile old Geldez outside plotted dark 
deviltry. 

After that the greaser’s girl belonged to Mulgowan 
just the same as his horse. And Mulgowan’s horse loved 
him, but not in the same way as did the dark eyes of the 
San Anton’ valley. 

Women are different creatures the night before a regi- 


Back to San Anton’. 


137 


ment pulls out. They tell you things that you never heard 
from their lips before. They talk to you alone. They are 
pretty in their gaiety, bewitching in their silence, quite 
womanly in their tears, and adorable. The last night at 
the San Anton’ barracks was memorable. The regiment 
was ready to laugh or cry. Promises were made. Mul- 
gowan danced with dark eyes, and later they strolled out 
into the moonlight together. And old Geldez watched 
them and plotted still. 

Historical novels have been written upon the reasons 
why regiments were ordered out a short time ago. There 
were few happier men than Mulgowan in the troop at 
any time, but while we were pushing on to the front he 
couldn’t sleep for furious spirits. The “front” is any 
place on the borderland of God’s country and some other 
place where something is expected to drop at any mo- 
ment. We arrived. Not many hours afterward Mul- 
gowan became a changed man and a spoiled trooper. 

It happened in the morning just after the mail was 
brought in. When one opens a package in a cavalry 
camp he takes chances on being seen. One of the draw- 
backs of the service is that the state of blessed solitude is 
unattainable. It was a small package such as jewels are 
sent in. It was unregistered. A human finger, dry and 
cold, was in the box. Mulgowan did not swear, which 
was unnatural. The skin upon his face became colorless. 
He dropped the thing. The trooper nearest looked at it 
intently and then at his own hands. 

“Left third finger,” he remarked. 


Back to San Anton’ 


138 

“Is it a woman's ?“ Mulgowan asked in a stifled voice. 
His face was turned away. 

“Must belong to a woman or a kid," was the answer. 
“Cheer up, Mul." 

That evening after retreat we saw Mulgowan sitting 
alone in the shadowy twilight. His eyes seemed to look 
backward toward San Anton'. He did not even smoke. 
We hated to say anything. After a while Mulgowan 
walked along the picket line until he came to his own 
horse. Then he stopped and whispered for a long time 
close to the fancy, little gelding’s ear, an action on his 
part which made the youngster Yellow Hair very happy, 
indeed. 

And long after taps had sounded I rolled over on my 
bunk and peered out from under the raised walls of the 
tent. The moon was high and there were no shadows. 
Mulgowan still stood on the picket line. His fingers of 
one hand were tangled in the mane of Yellow Hair, and 
his eyes were turned backward toward San Anton'. The 
stable guard walked his post and whistled low. 

Three days afterward another package was handed to 
Mulgowan, and when it was opened we saw another third 
finger belonging to a woman or a boy. It was the third 
finger of a right hand this time, and it was dry and cold. 
Mulgowan’s face did not change, because it had been 
haggard and white for three days. 

What the youngster Yellow Hair was told that night 
no one else ever knew. He looked very wise and thought- 
ful while his master stood by his head just before taps 


Back to San Anton’. 


139 


sounded. And after that, when all troopers slept, Mul- 
gowan stole away. Yellow Hair never told that his mas- 
ter had gone back to the dark eyes of the San Anton' 
valley. 

After reveille roll-call the next morning the first ser- 
geant approached the troop commander, saluted and said : 

‘‘Sergeant Mulgowan missing, sir." 

The troop commander strolled over to headquarters, 
saluted several times, and reported to the officer of the 
day: 

“Sergeant Mulgowan missing, sir." 

Among other things which telegraph operators pounded 
out that same morning was, “Sergeant Mulgowan miss- 
ing." And the old greaser, Geldez, away back in San 
Anton' heard the same words repeated, and his face be- 
came a dirty yellow hue, and people never saw him in the 
San Anton' valley after that day. 

A recruit in the troop, who was old, enough to know 
better, spoke out loud and at length about time-of-war de- 
serters, and incidentally remarked that such did not de- 
serve a military funeral. We, who stood near, listened 
until the youth had finished his observations, then we 
applied our muscular selves toward making him regret 
his words. The troop was broken up, for it loved Mul- 
gowan and was proud of him. Meanwhile the fancy, little 
gelding Yellow Hair whinnied softly and often and pawed 
the turf with his front hoofs. 

The rest of the story, all except the ending, was told 
me. They said that a nian in civilian garb rushed into a 


140 


Back to San Anton’. 


San Anton' barrroom several nights after the Geldez place 
had been closed. It was very late. They said that the 
man was mad and that he drank, drank, until stupor came. 
And when he could drink no more the man was heard to 
mutter ; 

‘‘Cover them up, my little Dark Eyes— cover them up. 
For God’s sake, cover them up, I say!” 

They all knew the dark eyes of the San Anton’ valley 
and they went at once to the place of old Geldez, the 
greaser — ^many of them. The moon whitened the sand 
about, but all was dark inside — dark and silent. It was a 
low hut with four windows. The three in front were 
tightly shuttered and ominous. The back window was 
open, and the shutters were stretched apart. One of them 
hung lightly on its hinges, and the night wind made it 
sway and softly creak. 

They entered, the fascination of terror was upon them. 
A human voice would have made them turn and flee. 
Had a cat purred they would have shrank back affrighted, 
as if from an uncanny sound. Had it rubbed its furry 
sides against them in the darkness they would have stood 
fear-frozen, as if in the clutch of the devil. Curious 
and uncertain things are those fibres we call nerves. 

Truly, they seemed to crawl through the empty bar- 
room with its two tightly shuttered windows — through 
another room, where the third window was accounted for. 
Then the leading man stepped upon the threshold of the 
last room and looked. 

Have you ever heard the scream of a frightened horse? 


Back to San Anton’. 


141 

You will always remember the sound if you have. It is 
horrible. It is like the sound which the leading man ut- 
tered when he looked into the last room of the Geldez 
place that night. 

The open shutter swayed in the wind and softly creaked. 
A pallid moonbar came through the orifice and moved 
backward and forward across the coverlet of the bed. 
Something lay behind in the shadow — something voice- 
less, yet possessed of gleaming eyes ; and even as the first 
man looked two awful objects were stretched out toward 
him. Then the shutter creaked again, and the pale moon- 
beam included the two dark things in its light and the 
man screamed. Later, when they had gained their breath 
and nerves back in the bar-room, the leader said : 

‘T saw them move out from the shadow where the eyes 
were, and they looked like arms, but there were no hands 
to them — only stumps — ugh.^^ The man shuddered and 
gulped down many more drinks. 

When daylight came the mad drinker crept unsteadily 
from the bar-room. It was not until daylight came that 
the other men ventured back to the old Geldez place. 
Still afraid, they entered again, and found that they had 
fled from nothing but the little dark-eyed maiden. Her. 
arms were buried beneath a coverlet and when it was 
raised, they saw how she had suffered. The dark eyes 
were closed now, and the arms were still. The men won- 
dered why old Geldez was not there. 

Yellow Hair was very happy one morning, because 
Mulgowan had been with him and petted him again and 


142 


Back to San Anton’. 


again. It was a different looking trooper who reported 
for duty to the first sergeant that morning. Twelve 
days had passed since Mulgowan lingered on the picket- 
line, whispering to Yellow Hair and looking backward 
toward San Anton’. In the orderly-room, where the troop 
books were kept, a dirty word was written opposite his 
name. In the little volume containing army regulations, 
words are printed to this effect : 

*^Any soldier deserting from garrison or field will be 
accorded such punishment as the court-martial may di- 
rect. In time of war this punishment shall be death.” 

Mulgowan had come back to the troop in the night. 
Just after reveille he had reported to the first sergeant, 
and the troop commander had placed him at once under 
arrest. Mulgowan spoke no word to his old fellows. Oh, 
how we wished we could help him. There was no joking 
at mess that morning. 

Anybody can tell you what happened after reveille and 
before stables. A corporal and two privates of the main 
guard were sent over from headquarters. The boys who 
loved Mulgowan were out in the troop street, watching 
while they placed him under arrest. Had they been any- 
thing but good soldiers, and had they been anywhere ex- 
cept in Uncle Sam’s army, the arrest of Mulgowan would 
never have taken place. 

“Escort this prisoner to the guard-house,” the troop 
commander ordered. 

Mulgowan stood at attention and spoke no word. 

The two privates of the main guard brought their car- 


Back to San Anton’. 


143 


bines to the position of port arms, and stood five paces be- 
hind the prisoner. The corporal saluted the troop com- 
mander and said, ‘‘Forward, march/’ The corporal’s 
voice was husky. He was not pleased with his task. 

Mulgowan seemed not to hear the command. It was 
repeated. 

“Wait a moment,” the prisoner said. He stepped over 
to the picket line, where Yellow Hair was tethered. The 
two talked together for a moment. The guards watched. 

Then Mulgowan was led away to court-martial. 

And the fancy little gelding. Yellow Hair, whinnied 
often in the days that followed and pawed the turf. 



The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 











t 







THE VOICE IN THE FOURTH CELL. 


Back from the coast and high among the hills is the 
little village of Manati — hid away among the hills of white 
rock on the island of Porto Rico. When the great guns 
stormed and roared in the harbor of San Juan, fifty miles 
away, only the faintest reverberations were borne back 
to this tiny village. When the white Sibley tents of 
Uncle Sam’s soldiers dotted the rolling land outside the 
town, naked children played in the streets and men and 
women starved just the same in the prison. 

There are thick mahogany bars on the fourth cell of 
the Spanish prison at Manati. Look through them to- 
day and in the half-light you will see two very wonder- 
ful eyes. There are no such eyes back in the States. You 
may find orbs like them among the fairest of Spain’s fair 
women, but few will there be so depthless, great and 
dark. 

They speak, laugh — they charm you so that you can 
see naught but them. You cannot tell whether it is the 
expression of knavery or the spirituelle light which 
charms you more. You pause before them. If any 
Spanish comes to you that moment you will speak. Then 
gradually in the dimness you will perceive the rest of 
Juan Tosto’s face. 


148 The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 

It will please you. No countenance could be vicious 
or ugly with such eyes. You will not wonder at the 
sunken cheeks, or at the drawn, bloodless lips, for all 
Spanish convicts slowly starve. Pass on, you must. 

Then in a moment, you will hear strains of weird, 
hushed melody. It is like the dream of a pure con- 
science, so sweet, so ethereal, so appealing; close your 
eyes and you will see the great white moon, playing upon 
the turrets of Spanish castles. You care not to under- 
stand the words — so touching is the music from the cell 
of Juan Tosta. 

But we knew the Spanish singer, Silk Redmond and I, 
before he was starving in the dark cell of Manati prison. 
When his home was on the great White Cliffs, hanging 
over the curling, limpid Rio Grande, we met him. There 
is a Rio Grande in Porto Rico. It is distant from no- 
where on the island. Its water is the clearest in the 
world — like a mountain spring. 

Years before Juan Tosta was a slave. 

Because he was a Porto Rican those whose veins run 
with pure Castilian blood, would have called Juan a mon- 
grel. Strange to an American are these people — so mild 
and harmless are they. The finer feelings of life are not 
unknown to them. They live in a land the capabilities 
of which are incalculable, yet they die in their youth — 
die not from disease, but in the slow agony of wasting 
limbs, in the low fever of hunger unappeased. 

Centuries of oppression have made them a timid peo- 
ple. The rich Spanish planter was their master once. 


The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 149 

To-day they are trying to realize that Americans pay 
wages for labor. 

The last wofds of dying Spain were a declaration of 
peace. American soldiers are quartered in old Spanish 
garrisons, and American gunboats peer majestically into 
what were once Spanish cities. Senoritas are singing 
‘‘After the Bair' in all Porto Rican towns. All things 
have been remembered. 

Yet detachments of Uncle Sam's horsemen are scour- 
ing the hills for dark little men with bare feet and hag- 
gard faces — for men who have long known that war is no 
more, and whose wives and children are passively starv- 
ing in the coast cities. 

Do they hate the cavalrymen who are daily running 
them down? Yes, just as slaves of other days hated the 
lash. Ah, but they hate the rich Spanish planter much 
more, even as the slaves hated him who held the lash. 

Why was it that skeleton companies of Americans 
routed whole regiments of Spanish soldiers? Because 
these dark little men with bare feet and haggard faces 
were in the ranks. And why were they there? Because 
they were nothing but poor Porto Rican mongrels, and 
their masters, the full-blooded Castilians, drove them to 
it. 

And these same little men in those few months felt a 
sensation which their fathers never knew. The Ameri- 
can feels it, trembles under it, glories in it. 

It is the sensation of conquering fear. 

They saw that the pale-faced Castilian was not king of 


The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 


150 

the world, and they quivered in the thrall of a might) 
thought. When it was no longer a thought but a con- 
summated action, these dark little men were deserters, in- 
festing the great white cliffs. And the Porto Rican 
women were awed by deeds of such daring, and at night, 
behind bolted doors, they whispered words of praise for 
such heroes. 

And they also taught their naked babies to say, when 
Uncle Sam’s soldiers passed by: 

“Mericano mucho wano !” 

And so well did the tiny, dark-skinned youngsters learn 
the lesson that in a few days the words grew to be a 
meaningless, wearying sound to the boys from the States. 

Meanwhile the deserters made midnight sallies upon 
the plantations where they once slaved. Yes, and they 
burned the haciendas. The very dignified name of “guer- 
rillas” became theirs, and the cavalrymen from the States 
received orders to bring them in dead or alive. 

And all these things resulted in Silk Redmond and I 
meeting Juan Tosta, the sweet singer on the Great White 
Cliffs. 

“We don’t want to cart around any prisoners,” the ser- 
geant of the detachment said. “The San Juan prison is 
crowded now. We want to sleep nights, instead of stand- 
ing guard. All I got to say is don’t monkey with the 
greasers.” 

The sergeant was an old man. He had soldiered in 
Texas. We were tickled at the outlook. 

A December night, yet you wanted no blankets. Four 


The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 151 

men were already sleeping. The cook-fire was a mass of 
whitened embers. The guard hummed softly and paced 
about among the horses. Silk Redmond, finishing a 
cigar, let his eyes wander high among the beautiful mys- 
teries of a tropical night. 

When we had slept an hour the sky beyond an ad- 
jacent group of hills reddened into a vast lurid expanse. 
The guard saw it, and in a few moments we all knew 
that there was game in the vicinity and that it was very 
much awake. 

At dawn we pushed our horses up to the hot, smoking 
ruins of a big hacienda. The Spanish owner said that 
for two nights he had heard the songs of Black Stick up 
in the cliffs — Black Stick, the bold and bad Porto Rican, 
the very worst guerrilla on the island. He did his work 
well that night, however. 

For ten days we searched every crag and abutment 
along the high walls of the Rio Grande, from Manati to 
Ciales. The songs of Black Stick were heard no more, 
a circumstance which made us understand that the out- 
law used his eyes. Then even the small detachment was 
divided. Silk Redmond and I stuck together. Black 
Stick was making sleepless nights for the old cavalry 
sergeant. 

And we, why we would have given up future hopes for 
a shot at him. 

Did you ever track a buck for a whole day and then 
watch him leap out from your very shadow and disappear, 


152 The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 

while you forgot that there were such things in creation 
as carbines, cartridges and venison steaks ? 

We were very weary, Silk Redmond and L We were 
blue, too, and foolish enough to let our minds wander 
back to the States where our hearts were. We were too 
weary to make a fire that night. Had we done so, we 
would not have heard the soul-melting melody of the 
Porto Rican bandit. A moment or two later, and we 
would not have heard it, except as angel music in a 
dream, for our eyes were weighted down with sleep. 

We did not move. It was a soothing touch upon our 
foreheads, like the pressure of a mother’s hand. It 
brushed away the calloused places in our souls and 
changed us for one memorable moment from cavalrymen 
into little children. It would have made us feel, had we 
ever doubted, that there are raptures hidden away in 
heaven. 

The moon shone high upon the cliffs. The rocks stood 
out in the pallid radiance. The Rio Grande twinkled 
back at the stars above the gorge and hummed low of 
peace and slumber. Down from the cliffs there came to 
us a quaver of enchantment. Then the magic voice was 
silent. It was : 

‘Xike the last sweet note 
From a wild bird’s throat. 

As off to the south he goes.” 

Black Stick was untamed still, but he was sad, too, 
and very lonely. By his song we knew it. 


The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 153 

For several moments Silk Redmond^s heart was so big 
that it choked his throat, and he could not speak. This 
is what the words were, when they came : 

*T’m going to pull my freight in the morning and let 
the poor devil starve and sing himself to death. I 
wouldn’t shoot that chap any more than I would — eat a 
baby.” 

The Rio Grande purred and prattled on. It was very 
dark in the gorge. I reached for Redmond’s hand. His 
was groping for mine. Then we dreamed of great cities 
and loving white faces in the Northland, while the moon 
mounted the skies above the gorge, and its white bars 
played in the depths of the running river. 

In the morning, the rest of the squad ran into us. 

“Well, what do you know?” the old sergeant asked. 

“Black Stick may be in Jericho for all I can tell,” Red- 
mond averred hopelessly. 

“In my opinion. Black Stick and his melancholy music 
is all a fake,” some one said. 

I acknowledged, without choking, that he voiced my 
sentiments exactly. 

We were standing upon the river bank. The cliffs rose 
high above us. 

“Well, that beats the devil,” said the old cavalry ser- 
geant. “We are certainly a gang of coffee-coolers.” 

A great rock knocked down a horse in our midst. It 
was hurled from the heights. Then came another. 

“All a fake,” Redmond repeated nervously. Then the 
sergeant spoke again : 


154 The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 

“Ford the river with these horses, Darley. Take posi- 
tions over there, and don’t move your eyes from the 
cliff. Corporal Mack, take two men and circle to the left. 
I’ll go this way with Redmond and the kid. No non- 
sense, remember!” 

“We’ll have to get to him first — if he lives,” Redmond 
whispered to me. And we raced ahead, climbing higher, 
higher upon the rocks. 

Even had I never heard the bewitching cadence of 
Black Stick’s voice on a moon-mellowed evening, no 
white man could have leveled a carbine at those soft, lus- 
trous, Spanish eyes. And when Silk Redmond and I saw 
them gleaming from a thicket, we stood erect and gently 
beckoned for the dreaded outlaw to approach. 

His knife was in one hand ; his hat in the other, and his 
eyelids were stretched wide apart. There was a red light 
in his great, dark eyes, like a distant forest fire shining 
through a wall of night. It was the light of horror. His 
dark skin was changed into the ashy gray of a raincloud. 
Trembling he approached. 

Thus was the taking of Black Stick, the terrible, on 
the Great White Cliffs overlooking the Rio Grande. 

Ah, but he was a sweet singer ! 

The old cavalry sergeant was very happy when he saw 
the Porto Rican creeping in front of us down the cliffs. 

“Why didn’t you wing the greaser?” he asked. 

“He didn’t give us a show,” Redmond answered. 

It takes a good man to be a soldier. Redmond and I 
were only recruits. Moreover, we had little hope of ever 


The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 


155 


being much better. Had we been good soldiers we 
would have captured Black Stick on the same night we 
heard his songs. Had we been good soldiers we would 
have had to carry the bandit's body down the cliffs, in- 
stead of allowing him to lead the way. 

Strong was the guard that took Juan Tosta, alias Black 
Stick, to Manati prison. Strong and thick are the ma- 
hogany bars which keep him in the dark, fourth cell. 
The spirit of a bandit is broken within him. Hunger 
plays sadly upon a man's nerve. And then the bandit 
spirit is not mighty in the Porto Rican at best. 

But his voice is not dead. It is as subtle as the cen- 
tury-old wine in the cellars of the mighty El Alcaldo. It 
is as sweet as the memory of dear ones far away. And 
the eyes of Juan Tosta, once a slave, once the dreaded 
Black Stick, shine with the light of a living soul when he 
sings. 

Juan cannot understand why we two, who took him 
from the Great White Cliffs, sit at evening at the ma- 
hogany bars of his cell — sit silent, almost breathless, until 
he sings the slumber song and the bugle calls us back to 
camp. Juan cannot understand why a warm, gray blan- 
ket with a big U. S. in the centre, was given him to sleep 
upon. 

Juan cannot understand why Silk Redmond thrust a 
trembling hand through the mahogany bars last night, 
when the slumber song was ended — a trembling hand 
which grasped his own and lingered there. 

Juan Tosta will never know why the two American 


156 The Voice in the Fourth Cell. 

cavalrymen took him from the Great White Cliffs above 
the Rio Grande. He thinks we were good soldiers that 
day. 

And so does the old cavalry sergeant, even if we didn^t 
“wing the greaser.” 





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The Good Which Was in Him. 




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THE GOOD WHICH WAS IN HIM. 


No trooper said that Allen was not qualified to be troop- 
clerk. He had formerly been a college student. He had 
influential friends in Washington. Taps had just been 
played over Cooper, the old clerk. And because the cap- 
tain picked out Allen to take his place, the boys were 
angry. The clerkship is desirable in a cavalry regiment, 
because it relieves a man from all calls and troop duty. 
Allen might have been a college professor or the son of 
the President, but among Uncle Sam’s horsemen he was 
only a recruit. And it was galling to see a recruit slip 
out from his share of hard work. The boys got over it, 
however, for the new clerk proved to be a good fellow. 

As a cavalryman, Allen was athletic and satisfactory. 
Some way, back in the States, he had never taken pains 
to show people the good which was in him. As a matter 
of fact, he was little heard from until the time when 
Uncle Sam called for men to make soldiers out of. . . . 

There is a bunch of troopers down in Porto Rico to-day 
who know that Allen once did a noble thing. 

Ten days after he joined the troop another recruit came 
down from Washington. He was a slender little chap. 


1 62 The Good Which Was in Him. 


with big, pathetic eyes. Soon he became known as Kid, 
except in roll-calls, when he answered to “Allen, Num- 
ber Two.’' The little fellow had nothing to say, but we 
could all see that he wasn’t cut out for a trooper. We 
knew, too, that he was making a game fight against that 
overpowering sickness which feeds upon the thoughts of 
home. The time came when both of the Allens were away 
back in the mountains of Porto Rico, and, like every 
other soldier on the island, they dreamed much of their 
native land. But the Kid brooded, which was bad for 
him. 

Retreat was just over for the cavalry detachment in 
Ciales. The troopers hung up their carbines and six- 
shooters, removed their hot blouses, and many strolled 
over to lounge in the plaza of the tiny town. Allen, the 
troop-clerk, walked slowly and thoughtfully down to the 
stables. His bay gelding, Rio Grande, whinnied softly 
at his approach. The big cavalryman stroked the animal 
and was silent. Perhaps it was because he was lonesome 
and heart-hungry that he sought the gloomy stables. A 
little way off the big river, after which the troop-horse 
was named, plunged and boomed over the rocks. 

The valleys were growing dim with twilight, but high 
up on the Ciales hill, where the stables were, it was not 
dark yet. Allen wondered why there had been no mail 
steamer from the States in San Juan harbor for ten days. 
His shapely gelding seemed to be thinking about some- 
thing, too. Perhaps the troop-horse was wondering why 
there was so much rain up on the Porto Rican hills, or 


The Good Which Was in Him. 163 

why the big soldier who petted him was so serious that 
evening. Anyway, he playfully pushed off Allen’s dusty 
campaign hat with his silky nose, and afterward used 
the same silky nose to find out what was in the pockets 
of the big cavalryman’s blue shirt. 

Dark shadows crept higher and higher up the hills, and 
the tropical stars grew steady and whitened. Allen won- 
dered if there would be a certain letter for him when the 
steamer did come in — a. letter from an American girl 
whom he had always thought much about, and whose 
memory had become a great and dear thing to him since 
he had been a cavalryman. Somehow, his thoughts did 
not make him happy, but he whistled very cheerily to 
help him forget. Rio Grande was playful. 

Just then the troop-clerk saw the other Allen sitting 
alone in the gloom at the far end of the stables. The lad 
was staring away over the hills toward the Northland. 
The big fellow approached and peered into the other’s 
face. He saw a strange expression there — ^the same sort 
of an expression which he had seen upon the face of 
another recruit the day before a squad of men were sent 
out to search for him. 

''Are you sick. Kid?” the troop-clerk questioned ten- 
derly. He knew well why the silent lad was staring away 
beyond the shadowy mountains. He knew the nature of 
the sickness which was upon him — ^how intense and un- 
reasoning were his longings, how dark and deep was his 
suffering. The troop-clerk knew because he had felt and 
suffered, too, years ago in the first college days. And the 


164 The Good Which Was in Him. 

troop-clerk pitied the other Allen, with every bit of his 
big, warm heart. Only two women knew the warmth of 
that heart then, and one was the mother. 

‘'Come on up to the quarters,'’ he said, “where it’s light 
and the other fellows are. ’Twon’t do you any good to 
be moping around here in the dark. I’ve got a good book 
up in the orderly room. Come on up and get it— come on, 
Kid.” 

He caught the lad by the shoulder and persisted gently. 
Rio Grande whinnied softly as the two passed. Their 
arms were locked, and the big cavalryman was talking 
in a low voice. The river boomed in the distance, and 
the stable guard walked his post. 

♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

It was four days after that when the mail came in 
from the States. A big bundle of business matter from 
the army headquarters at San Juan and some Washington 
dispatches were handed to Allen, but there was no letter 
from the American girl. With an angry burning in his 
throat and a heavy burden in his breast, the troop-clerk 
sorted the pile of routine stuff. He glanced through one 
of the Washington communications. 

A moment afterward he was covered with a hot per- 
spiration. 

Allen folded the dispatch, placed a horseshoe upon it, 
and then stepped out in front of the quarters to cool off. 
He heard the rain pounding upon the cliff a quarter of 
a mile up the trail. The shower was coming closer, closer. 


The Good Which Was in Him. 165 

Darkness closed in with the storm. The other Allen sat 
silent and sad-eyed in the gloom. 

‘'Maybe — she — thinks — Fm — not — worth — writing — 
to/* the troop-clerk muttered unsteadily. The eyes of the 
lad were strangely wide open. 

“Because Fm only a common enlisted man, and because 
her father is a Congressman.’’ 

This moment the troop-clerk looked again at the face 
of the other Allen. The big cavalryman seemed to forget 
his own troubles. The other was only a boy. A mother 
away back in the Northland was yearning for this boy. 
And his face which the troop-clerk saw in the gathering 
of the storm and night — well, it told of a heart which was 
slowly breaking. 

Two lips closed very tightly that moment. They were 
the lips of the man who had been a college student once, 
and whom many people back in the States thought would 
never amount to much. He was the same big cavalry- 
man who had longed for a letter from an American girl, 
and had received none. 

Looking all the while at the lad, Allen stood very erect, 
as soldiers are taught to do. Then he swallowed some- 
thing big and lumpy in his throat, after which he began 
to whistle loudly. A gust of rain swept through the open 
door of the quarters, and the sad-eyed soldier moved from 
his seat and silently sank down upon his bunk. 

A half-hour later the troop-clerk said to the top- 
sergeant : 

“An order came in to-night for the Kid’s discharge. 


1 66 The Good Which Was in Him. 


His descriptive list was not among the papers, but the 
dates and place of enlistment are all right/’ 

Allen spoke very quietly. He had been working over 
the papers for many minutes. The first sergeant looked 
up from a ten-day-old paper and remarked : 

‘T’m glad of it. Can’t make a soldier out of a homesick 
young lady. . . . The mud will be knee-deep down 
at the stables in the morning by grooming time if this 
infernal rain keeps up — and this is the dry season.” 

The rain clouds rushed and clamored above the tiny 
town. The trumpeter of the troop put his head out into 
the storm, and his bugle screamed the last call a soldier 
hears at night — the weird, wailing taps. 

The next forenoon “Allen, Number Two,” with a big 
canvas roll in his arms, started in an oxcart for Manati, 
where he would connect by train with San Juan. He 
was the happiest boy on the whole island of Porto Rico, 
because he was going back to God’s country and his 
mother, and there was an honorable discharge in his 
pocket. Just before he had left the quarters Allen, the 
troop-clerk, had given him a sealed envelope, and said the 
following in a dry whisper : 

“Read this, old man, when you can’t see San Juan any 
longer from the deck of the transport — ^not a minute 
sooner. Understand? And write to me all — all about 
Washington, as soon as you can. . . . Well, adios, 
Kid. Good luck to you.” 

The same afternoon another bunch of mail was brought 
to the troop. There had been so much on the delayed 


The Good Which Was in Him. 167 

transport that the clerks in San Juan could not sort it 
all for the first day. One of the private letters which 
Allen received contained the following paragraph : 

“Oh, Jack, it’s come! I vowed I wouldn’t write you 
again until papa told me your discharge was on the way. 
Telegraph when you reach New York, and we’ll all meet 
you at the train. And, say. Jack, put on lots of warm 
things on the transport, because lots of poor boys have 
died of pneumonia from the sudden change of climate. 
I can hardly realize that you are coming back.” 

Down at the lonely stables that night the shapely geld- 
ing, Rio Grande, looked very wise and thoughtful. A 
certain big cavalryman stood at his head and said many 
things in a choking whisper. The west was streaked 
with dark red glory, but it was black and ominous beyond 
the mountains in the northwest. The swollen river boomed 
angrily down the trail. And the sentry walked his post 
and occasionally kicked up straggling bunches of hay 
closer to the picket line. 

“So it was the little woman who got the discharge, and I 
thought she — ^was — ashamed — ^to — write — to — ^me. . . . 
Oh, well, the Kid is happy, anyway, and his mother will 
soon be happy, too. ... I hope the little woman 
won’t be angry because I did it. The Kid would probably 
be eating his heart out in the troop to-night if I had 
received her letter the same time as the discharge. . . . 
But I guess I can stick it out all right. I can stand it 
all right, if she’ll write to me.” 

The big cavalryman walked back to the quarters, whis- 


i68 The Good Which Was in Him. 


tling very loudly and trying to forget. And that night the 
trooper who had once been a college student wrote a long 
letter to the American maiden whose father was a Con- 
gressman. Long after taps had sounded and all other 
soldiers save the sentries were asleep, there was still a 
light in the orderly room, and Allen was still writing. 

The city of San Juan looked vague and far-away be- 
hind the harbor mists. The white walls of Castle Morro 
were indefinite in clouds of gray. And when Allen, 
.Number Two, could see the Porto Rican capital no longer, 
he tore open the sealed letter which the troop-clerk had 
given him. Some of it is here : 

“I suppose you wondered how it all came about. We 
knew how you felt. Kid. We could see that the life was 
killing you, and, to be honest, I was afraid you might do 
something to disgrace that town which we both love. 
And then I would have had to put a dirty word across 
your name in the troop-books. You couldn’t have been 
happy at home if you went that way. 

“You see, I had some friends in Washington, who got 
a discharge for me, but / mislaid the descriptive list, made 
‘17’ out of the ‘7’ in the dates, and the discharge was 
yours. Of course, I couldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been 
troop-clerk. 

“There were reasons why I didn’t care particularly 
about going home, but I knew what you suffered every 
day in the troop. Don’t feel sorry over this, because I’m 
tough and can stand ‘soldiering’ a little longer. Good- 
by, Kid, and good luck.” 


The Good Which Was in Him. 169 

The great, silent hills back of old Morro seemed only 
a deeper azure than the clouds now, but the eyes of ^‘Allen, 
Number Two,” who was no longer a soldier, were too 
filmy to take in their beauty. The transport steamed on, 
on toward the Northland. 

Every evening for almost a month the fancy bay geld- 
ing, Rio Grande, listened to a big cavalryman's confidings 
and was petted. And no trooper knew the secrets which 
Rio Grande was told. The troop-clerk attended to his 
duties as a good cavalryman should. The great, white 
cliffs were beaten with tropical showers, and the troopers 
dreamed more and more of the Northland. And down 
the trail from the stables the big river boomed and tum- 
bled over the rocks. 

Allen was very busy when this letter came : 

“So you thought I was ashamed to write to you? Ah, 
Jack, you should have known me better than that. What 
you did was hard for me, but it was harder for you. I 
told everybody you were coming home. The mother of 
the ‘other Allen' thinks you are some sort of a soldier- 
angel, Jack. . . . But I'll write to you — even if you 

have to stay on that horrid, rainy island for three years.” 

Allen was very busy when the above epistle came. He 
was making out the final statements for all the war re- 
cruits in the troop, for the official order for their dis- 
charges had just been cabled to the island from Washing- 
ton. His own discharge was already made out, because 
the name Allen stands among the first on the troop muster 
roll. 


1 70 The Good Which Was in Him. 


And down in the stables Rio Grande and the other troop- 
horses pricked up their ears and whinnied softly when 
they heard the happy shouts of the discharged cavalry- 
men up in the quarters. And the big river boomed might- 
ily and plunged over the rocks down the trail. 







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quarters with it.” 






The Aberration of Private Brown. 








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THE 


ABERRATION OF PRIVATE BROWN. 


Brown had a faculty of listening while others talked. 
He was a big cavalryman, and, putting it with studied 
mildness, he was not pleased with his job. Patriotism 
was noble once — about the time when the desks of liter- 
ary editors were deluged with spasms on the Maine blow- 
up — and Brown had become a trooper ere his unhealthy 
delirium had pined away. 

Many troopers were weeded out by the flies and fever 
of a Tampa summer camp, but Brown had been one of 
the tanned and haggard cavalrymen, too leathery to get 
a sick furlough, and who were among the first American 
soldiers to view the tropical shore and the mist-hung 
hills of Porto Rico from the dirty deck of a transport. 

And Brown was very unhappy in that land of few 
birds and fewer flowers. The troop headquarters was in 
Ciales, away up among the Great White Cliffs. And this 
night a bunch of cavalrymen sat in the plaza of the tiny 
town, and talked lingeringly about God's country over in 
the northwest. The hill breezes were fresh with a shower- 
odor, and pungent with the perfume of great orange 
groves, borne up from the valleys. Stars were mellowing 


176 The Aberration of Private Brown. 

the tropical twilight above the cliffs. Brown was foolish 
enough to let his thoughts wander back to his native land. 
Very hurriedly, very carelessly, he had kissed a tall, dark- 
eyed maiden on the spring night in the Northland, just 
before he chased off to join his regiment. The memory 
of that northern maiden had become a massive thing in 
his brain during the last few months. Below him the Rio 
Grande tumbled noisily across the Manati trail. Some - 
thing which an old cavalry sergeant was saying caught 
Brown’s ear this moment. 

“ . . . Pretty foxy recruit, he was, but dead sore 

on the service. First thing we knew he was laid up with 
a bad leg. The doctor was no chump, but he couldn’t 
do a thing for the rook — leg was stiff and swollen. Doc 
got gray hairs over the case — let the kid pound his bunk 
for a few weeks, then give him a discharge for disability. 
As soon as the kid got home he wrote back to his bunkie 
something like this : 

'Thread a horsehair on a fine needle and run it under 
your kneecap. It won’t bleed nor hurt much. Shave 
off the ends of the hair close and go on sick report. The 
doctor will do the rest. You can pull the hair out when 
you’re a man again — but maybe you want to serve out 
your three years. Say, my leg was in fine shape the day 
after I limped out of headquarters with a pained look on 
my face and a discharge in my clothes. Love to all the 
boys.’ ” 

Brown’s face reflected the glow from the red embers 
of his pipe that night as ho ^ay upon his bunk. And I, 


The Aberration of Private Brown. 177 

who was his bunkie, saw that face in the reflection and 
wondered at the strange expression upon it. The wild- 
ness of an idea in his brain caused it. And long after 
taps had gone the red glow and the strange expression 
was still upon his face; and from a formless throng of 
thoughts in his brain there slowly developed a plan, de- 
fined, delicate and difficult. 

To no man in the troop did Brown speak a word for 
seven days. When one cavalryman made a remark to 
this effect at the end of the time, every one thought of it. 
1 alone knew how poor a soldier and how royal a fellow 
was Brown. Moreover, I was the only one who knew 
about the maid back in the States. 

At reveille roll-call one morning Brown was in ranks 
but did not say “Here'* when his name was called by the 
top sergeant. There was a vacuum depicted upon his 
face which showed rare art in its cultivation. 

“Brown, when you come to,** observed the top, “report 
to the orderly room.** 

I never saw a man who could stare so picturesquely at 
nothing and reflect it on his face like my bunkie could. 
There were no active comments made in regard to 
Brown’s mental condition until the morning when he re- 
fused to get up for reveille. The first call had gone some 
moments. The troopers were hurriedly dressing. There 
was no movement in Brown’s bunk. The sergeant of his 
squad saw a pair of dull, expressionless eyes, which 
drearily followed the movements of the flies on the wall. 
The face of the man in the bunk was empty and smile- 


178 The Aberration of Private Brown. 

less. I was sitting near by, looking pained, and my poor 
friend was saying: 

“My brother's wife will be here day after next. Got a 
telephone this morning. She doesn’t know I was all cut 
up in the war (there, that telephone is ringing again). 
She said, ‘Brown, you’re looking bad.’ . . . Tell that 

gentleman at the door that my life was despaired of last 
night, but that I am now out of danger.” 

After the sergeant had gone to make the troop-com- 
mander acquainted with the affair. Brown whispered to 
me : 

“Say, if you think this is easy, just try it for awhile !” 

That night the patient felt the necessity of becoming 
more active in the capacity of a wild man. The burden 
of his song — and he hasn’t a fortune in his voice — was, 
“O, beer in the little black bottle, black bottle.” It de- 
veloped in those hours of night that I was the only person 
who had the slightest control over Brown. It was a 
touching proof of his friendship for me because I was re- 
leased from all calls and troop duty and turned into a sort 
of keeper for my poor friend. 

But the strain was telling sadly upon him. For some 
unaccountable reason the troop commander had not yet 
reported the matter to the physician, and Brown had only 
been allowed the luxury of a lucid interval twice in four 
days. When I was alone with him, he said : 

“Here I am as nutty and as noisy as a whole fever ward 
— have to study all night to get my ravings down pat, and 
the d doctor won’t come around to pronounce on 


The Aberration of Private Brown. 179 

’em. If Fd a’known this thing had to be kept up indefi- 
nitely, Fd a’ deserted first. Say, it’s no cinch to keep the 
bees buzzin’ in your bonnet.” 

He was looking at me pathetically. There was no 
humor about Brown. 

have to keep saying to myself,” he went on, dismally, 
“Brown, you’re hivey, you’re buzzy, you’re supposed to 
hear noises and look idiotic — and, by heaven, the idea 
grows on me ! Say, bunk, don’t you think it would bring 
the doctor around if I got — er — violent ?” 

I felt that his suggestion was a good one, but in the 
capacity of a keeper, I recommended that it be a mild 
sort of violence. 

“Oh, I’ll not bruise you up, except when the others are 
looking,” he said seriously. 

And he got violent. It was that unreasoning, oh-if-I- 
could-only-die-give-me-a-knife sort of violence. He 
would look at me as if to say, “Don’t you dare give me a 
knife.” Still the doctor did not appear. After two hours 
of splendid effort. Brown was hoarse and fagged out. 

“Suppose,” he gasped, “I should grab that saber and 
dance around the quarters with it?” He was drenched 
with perspiration. 

“You’d get shot — promptly,” I observed. “Here 
comes somebody ! Get nutty. Brown, it’s the doctor !” 

I couldn’t describe that interview. Brown spread him- 
self. He was a poetic dreamer — a maudlin maniac — ^per- 
fect. The doctor departed with no thought but pity in 
his mind — supreme evidence that there was no humor in 


i8o The Aberration of Private Brown. 


Brown. A couple of hours afterward the top sergeant 
called me into the orderly room and said many surpris- 
ing things. 

*‘Well, what do you know?^^ asked Brown in a low 
voice. He was sitting up in his bunk, smoking cheer- 
fully. The ordeal of the doctor was over. His pros- 
pects were only cheerful ones now. As the whole troop 
was out on target practice, Brown was having a lucid in- 
terval. The enjoyment of it shone upon his face. I 
hated to spoil it, but I might not have so good a chance 
again. 

‘The doctor says you’ve got ’em, all right.” 

“Did he say there were any special or interesting feat- 
ures to my — my derangement ?” he questioned facetiously. 

“And they’re going to send you back to the States,” I 
resumed. 

“I guess I’m pretty bad actoring. I guess I won’t do.” 
Brown was tickled. Oh, what a shame it was to have to 
tell him ! The troubled look on my face made him say : 

“Devilish sorry, bunkie, you can’t go along. Honest, 
you’ll never know how much I think of you for the way 
you helped me out. We were always solid, though, be- 
fore — before I was taken. Why, confound it all, the only 
thing I regret is leaving you in this— dam’ country !” 

It was positively pitiful. 

“Don’t worry about that, old man,” I said, “I’m going 
with you.” 

Brown jumped at my hand and declared with a 


The Aberration of Private Brown. i8i 


throaty quaver, Jove ! if you'll desert, Fm with you, 
body and soul !" 

‘‘Don’t boil over so loud. Brown,” I said quietly. 
“You’ve got your own little game to play — ^besides, when 
I quit this man’s service. I’m not going to have a French 
leave to look back on.” 

Brown was looking more mystified every minute. 

“Moreover,” I went on, slowly, “you don’t think they’re 
going to let a wild man run around loose on a transport, 
do you? Why, it would be a criminal imposition. You’re 
liable to hurt somebody. You’ll be under a strong guard 
all the way home. Corp. Kennedy and I are appointed 
your keepers.” 

As I have said some half dozen times before, there was 
no humor in Brown. The excruciating refinement of my 
pleasantries were lost on him. In fact. Brown was dazed 
and limp. His pipe dropped to the floor. 

“I never thought of that !” he gasped. 

“The captain has written to your parents concerning 
your deplorable absence of mind, but we can ” 

“Wha-at?” roared Brown. He sat up erect, wild-eyed. 
And I had been warned to spare him from all excite- 
ment. 

“But you can write them that your mind is only tem- 
porarily webby, and — and I’ll sign the statement.” 

Brown looked at me with pitying scorn. 

“Yes, and the folks will say the saddest thing about 
it all is, the poor boy believes he is perfectly sane. And 


i 82 The Aberration of Private Brown. 

I see a pathetic finish for Brown when the maid hears 
about it — oh 

“Get leary, old man/’ I whispered, excitedly, at this 
moment, “the boys are coming back.” 

Brown’s derangement assumed a suicidal mania at 
once. Corp. Kennedy was exhausted in the course of an 
hour through his efforts to keep the patient from doing 
himself bodily harm. 

Now, the corporal was a conscientious man. It was 
this trait, chiefly, which caused the troop commander to 
put him in charge of Brown, the much deplored. It 
would be a long story, indeed, to relate how the Porto 
Rican children pointed to my poor friend, and then 
touched their own foreheads, whispering to each other : 

“Loco— -Americano soldato, loco.” 

It would be a long, sad story to tell how poor Brown 
was confined in the rear smoking-room of the transport, 
and how Corp. Kennedy insisted that either he or I must 
be awake with the patient all the time. It was a burden 
of peculiar and crushing weight for Brown to bear, when 
the sick and discharged soldiers going back to the States 
would peer through the loopholes of the smoking-room 
and make remarks such as these : 

“Why, he washes his face all right,” or “It’s a wonder 
they don’t keep him in a straitjacket,” or “He’s a savage- 
looking lunatic,” and others. 

The conscientious manner, too, in which Corp. Ken- 
nedy did his duty, had an oppressive and unpacifiying ef- 
fect upon Brown, whose violent intervals occurred only 


The Aberration of Private Brown. 183 

when the corporal was on guard. Violence seemed to 
weary Brown on the transport, and he did not persist in 
it, except when it was absolutely indispensable. At such 
times the loopholes of the smoking-room would be 
crowded with interested faces. 

While the big transport was being shoved and locked in 
pier 22, New York harbor, Kennedy was the busiest man 
on the ship. A good soldier was Kennedy, and before 
meeting his superiors at the army building he shaved and 
donned his finest. I was told to keep Brown under heavy 
guard until he returned. The corporal said he would 
send a telegram to the patient’s mother. 

Passing over the manner in which the patient’s dis- 
charge was obtained, only one more scene is necessary. 
Brown braced himself for a last delirium. The corporal 
must have no suspicion, at least while he was in the States. 

“Allow me to wholly manage the matter,” Kennedy 
whispered to me, as the train rolled into Brown’s native 
burg. Our patient appeared placid. By the expression 
upon his countenance one would imagine that he held 
both of his keepers in serene disdain. 

And a moment afterward Brown was in the arms of a 
weeping mother. He talked irrelevantly; he smiled a 
debilitated smile — he was the Brown of illusions — because 
Corp. Kennedy was there. It was the bravest effort of 
his life. 

And a tall maiden with eyes dark and handsome, yet, 
oh, so sad — was also there ! Brown appeared not to see 
her. 


184 The Aberration of Private Brown. 


“It is with much sorrow, madam,” Kennedy began. 
His words were studied. I could hear no more. Some- 
how the face of that mother and the eyes of that tall maid- 
en — made me feel giddy. 

“Excuse me, miss,” I began, “but I am Brown’s bunkie, 
and he was my best friend down there in Porto Ric ” 

I had planned to explain many things before the secret, 
but the maiden’s eyes told me that her heart was breaking. 
She knew and felt the truth an instant later and her dark 
eyes were sad no more. 

“The corporal knows nothing,” I concluded. “I will 
get him away, then you tell the mother. Say to Brown 
that I will see him to-night at 9. It was you, miss, that 
sickened the boy of the service. The corporal will not be 
with me to-night.” 

And the time came when I had to hasten away from 
Brown’s mother and Brown’s sweetheart and Brown, be- 
cause if I had not they would have seen something in my 
eyes — something that would not have looked well in the 
eyes of a big trooper. 

And on the transport Corp. Kennedy pleased himself 

with the thought of a difficult duty well done, and I 

well, I smoked and dreamed and missed my old bunkie as 
we neared the tropical shores and the mist-hung hills. 







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The Last Cell to the Right. 






THE LAST CELL TO THE RIGHT. 


Nobody knew the real reason why Stanley was so hag- 
gard and white, when he came out from the Spanish 
prison at Bayamon. He had served five days for missing 
retreat. He certainly was not starved, because they fed 
him as usual from troop rations. Yet Stanley was a dif- 
ferent cavalryman when he returned for duty. 

Now, the best of troopers have done time in the guard- 
house. Some captains use the old Spanish prisons of 
Porto Rico for guard-houses these days. There is one 
in Manati, a high interior town, sixty miles from San 
Juan. I had ten days against me when I was put in there. 
Why? Well, that story has already been told. At any 
rate, I only served seven. The other three days and many 
more were in the hospital. It was what I saw which 
shriveled up my nerve. 

When the realization came to me that it was a physical 
impossibility to dream away the whole ten days, I looked 
about. The aspect was not an inspiration. I sat in a 
small, stone-paved plaza, surrounded by cells, dark, dirty 
and depressing. There was a well in the centre of the 
prison yard, and when one walked across the flagging. 


190 


The Last Cell to the Right. 


his footsteps sounded with a cavernous reverberation in 
the black water chamber below. The entrance to the plaza 
was a big iron gate which was open in the daytime and 
guarded by a Spanish policeman. At sunset the prisoners 
were locked in the cells, and the plaza was left untenanted 
save by stray ponies and pallid moon bars. It was in 
one of those cells that Juan Tosta, the sweet singer of 
the Great White Cliffs, sang mournful melodies and sick- 
ened — Juan Tosta, once the dreadel brigand Black Stick. 
Every one of those cells has been the abode of living 
death. Men and women and babies have suffered there 
in ways hardly conceivable to white people. Tad was born 
in that last cell to the right, where the stocks are. Tad 
studied me from head to foot when I first became his 
fellow-convict. 

He had the eyes of the wizened woman who crouched 
at the door of the last cell. Three years before, without 
a cry or sound. Tad had filled his lungs for the first time 
— filled them with the foul air of a prison. An old con- 
vict woman told me this. His arms were like any other 
baby boy’s, but if there was ever a voice in his throat 
it had not yet been used. His head held some kind of a 
brain. You could see that by his eyes, but Tad never 
learned to smile. 

A garment hung about the brown baby, and about the 
garment hung the same odor which reached my nostrils, 
when I ventured too close to the woman who sat at the 
entrance of the last cell — sat almost hidden behind her 
gaunt knees. Her lips, her breastless figure never moved. 


The Last Cell to the Right. 191 

but everywhere her eyes followed the baby. They were 
filled with seeming^ consciousness of that crime which 
gave him life in a prison cell. They were bright with the 
staring brightness of fever. Had they shone from a skull 
wrapped in brown paper they would not have made you 
shudder more. The father of the infant was never seen, 
but day and night his moans were heard in the plaza. 

There are men and women in Porto Rican prisons who 
have committed no crime. When families can furnish no 
home for themselves the province gives them a cell. At 
1 1 o’clock each day the province also gives them a cupful 
of clay-colored soup, the primary mystery of which no 
soldier has yet solved. The province does not care if its 
paupers obtain other articles of food. They are welcome 
to anything which they can beg on the outside. But when 
the life spark has become gray and chilled, as in the case 
of Tad’s mother and father — so depleted that they crawl 
with groans and great difficulty — then they have nothing 
but clay-colored soup to make their dying longer. In- 
deed, some paupers have been dying for years upon it. 
This is a matter of no consequence to the province. 
American paupers and soldiers have an enlightened habit 
of eating three times a day. They are unlike the Porto 
Rican in this respect. 

One’s bones need little food. When all one’s muscles 
are attenuated and dried into stiff, brown cords from eat- 
ing clay-colored soup, then one’s stomach ceases its pain- 
ful gnawings at a vacuum. Tad’s mother was like this. 
His father was not yet in that condition. You could tell 


192 


The Last Cell to the Right. 

that by his moans. I observed all these things during the 
first day. It tended to create within me an aversion for 
government straits. 

A woman walked slowly through the iron gate at the 
prison entrance. She was smileless, hungry-eyed and 
silent. A large tin can was balanced upon her head. 
Her fleshless figure was marked with none of the curves 
of a woman. Her feet were bare; her movements slow 
and painful. Tad approached her. From a pocket in her 
dress the woman produced a green orange — natives eat 
oranges while they are green in Porto Rico. Still silent 
and smileless she handed it to Tad. 

Over by the entrance to the last cell, the mother 
crouched and stared. There was madness in her eyes, 
but she did not move. The man moaned inside. At the 
well the other woman slowly and painfully filled the can. 
The descending chain made a weird, cavernous rumble, 
as it beat against the slimy stone wall of the black water 
vault. Kneeling upon the flaggings, she placed the can 
upon her head and was gone. Tad poked his hand through 
the rind of the orange and crept toward his mother. Her 
eyes stared at him with an intensity I shall never forget. 
I see those eyes to this day. They seemed to bring the 
child to her. Suddenly her black skeleton hands shot for- 
ward toward the orange, but Tad eluded her. Still she 
crouched motionless, but her mad eyes followed every 
movement of the child. 

'‘Cannot these people speak I almost cried. My terror 
was unaccountable. You will see life rank and naked in 


193 


The Last Cell to the Right. 

a Porto Rican prison. It is bared of all tinsel wrapping. 
You will see how the slow suffering of hunger unappeased 
depraves the human mind — how one wolfish thought 
creeps into it and stays. You will shudder in horror at 
the sight. 

At sunset the Spanish policeman locked my cell and 
the others — ^all save the last one to the right. The woman 
was still huddled at the entrance, while the twilight was 
deepening — and the man moaned inside. I saw no more 
of Tad that night. 

Did you ever hear a cat step on dry, brittle leaves? 
It is just such a sound as this which numerous cock- 
roaches make when they crawl across a stone floor. It 
will keep you awake. If you are alone it will make you 
sit erect, and things will become distorted in your mind. 
Your eyelids will stretch wide apart. The darkness will 
seem shadowy. There is always darkness where cock- 
roaches are. The shrill, snarling “peak, peak,” of raven- 
ous rats can be borne, but the clicking rattle of cock- 
roach hordes is maddening. Behind shut lids you will 
see black spiders dangling before your face. A strong 
pipe will sooth you some. 

I was glad when the ashy moonbeams darkened in the 
plaza and the dawn settled down. The trooper who 
brought breakfast over from the quarters said my face 
was white. I could well believe it. As I lifted a can of 
coffee my hand trembled. The sight of Tad sickened 
me. I placed the tin plate of bacon and potatoes upon 
the flagging and kicked it toward him. No sound reached 


194 


The Last Cell to the Right. 


me in the cell, where I disappeared for a moment. But 
when I returned the plate was empty. Tad held a potato 
in his two brown hands, and it struck me that he looked 
significantly across the plaza at two convict women. His 
mother’s mad eyes were riveted upon him. The man 
suffered inside. 

Then the fleshless form of the water-woman swung 
slowly in through the iron gate. She filled the big jar 
and was gone — silent and smileless as a spectre. My 
nerves were twitching — my head ached. It seemed as if 
I were becoming dumb and inhuman — like these natives. 
Night must come again. The thought haunted me with 
shuddering dread. I dared not tell any soldier what I 
suffered lest he should laugh, having neither seen nor felt 
what I had. The sameness of it all, the silent suffering 
of the woman, the moanings of the man from the dark- 
ness, the filth, the vermin — ^all tortured me. And every 
hour of the growing day was a ruthless warning. 

In the cavalry service men from the ranks have to bury 
the dead horses and mules. I performed a ceremony once 
in a hot country over the remains of a government mule, 
four days gone from the glanders. I did not volunteer 
for this duty. It was thrust upon me. I remembered that 
task the second morning in Manati prison, when I admin- 
istered unto my little fellow-convict a scrubbing down 
with government bouquet. 

This was necessary. Not so much for the furtherance 
of Tad’s comfort as for my own. He was hourly de- 
creasing the interval between us. He seemed to like the 


195 


The Last Cell to the Right. 

American soldier. He was mightily attached to the white 
potatoes of the American soldier. In order that I might 
be comfortably chummy with the brown baby the duty 
devolved upon me to give him a thorough grooming. 

First I cut down an army undershirt into a sort of ulster 
for my diminutive friend. He watched me soberly. He 
still held part of the potato in his brown hands. His 
face was smeared with it, the result of a peculiar process 
of absorption. I then rolled up my sleeves, put a heavy 
charge into my pipe, and recklessly cut off Tad’s garment, 
which was so crowded with associations. 

Tad tolerated the idea. The soldier who gave him big, 
white potatoes was entitled to some consideration. I had 
often wondered why his slate-colored hair grew in 
patches. I ascertained the reason. It must be imagined. 
With a box of matches I succeeded in changing his for- 
mer garment into ashes. Tad was finishing the potato, 
while I sweated for several reasons, the heat included. 
With the most trying part of the task over I turned to the 
soap and the brown baby. 

Such a shock I received that moment can never be ade- 
quately expressed. From motives of charity and others 
I had undertaken to scrub the child down. Well, all I 
can say is that I did it very hurriedly and with averted 
face. As a matter of fact, I beckoned to one of the con- 
vict women and made her finish the job. I gave direc- 
tions at a modest distance. Tad was allowed to dry in 
the sun. SHE was as shiny and rosy after the operation 
as only Porto Rican babies are. The mother, crouching 


196 The Last Cell to the Right. 

at the entrance of the last cell to the right, viewed passing 
events with eyes that silently raved. And the water- 
woman strode silently in and was gone with her burden. 

The little girl baby was my comrade after that. She 
forgave the liberties I had so unintentionally taken. She 
allowed me to trim her finger nails. Baby hands, even if 
they are brown, are cute things and well worth studying. 
All my efforts failed to bring forth from her a word, a 
smile or a cry. 

Dinner was brought over, and we sat down upon the 
curbing of the well. Tad and I. The baby thrust her 
fingers into the mess tin and drew forth a potato. I drank 
coffee — my stomach revolted at more. Suddenly some- 
thing crushed its way into my nostrils. Violently sick- 
ened, I looked about. The mother of the baby was upon 
me. She had crawled from the cell door to my feet. 
I placed the mess tin upon the flagging and fled to the far 
end of the plaza. Tad sat on the well curb, busy with 
the potato. The man in the cell moaned louder, and 
drops of water from the brimming bucket fell into the 
black tomb with a cadence deep and dreadful. 

The bright day waned. The gloom in the cells deep- 
ened. The gaunt, smileless water-woman came no more. 
Over in the troop quarters the first call for retreat sound- 
ed. The Spanish policeman stood at the door of my cell. 
He smiled and beckoned. God only knows what I would 
have given to answer retreat instead. I tried to smile, 
but the impulse was strong within me to strike him. The 


The Last Cell to the Right. 197 

woman at the last cell moved her horrid eyes toward me 
as I entered. 

And so five days passed — five days in which I became 
aged and unmanned — five days in which I atoned for all 
my sins, past and to be. And all the while Tad became 
more and more like a child which is fed, and the white 
army shirt which she wore for a gown grew darker, like 
the one which was ashes. And all the while the fleshless 
water-woman swung in through the iron gate and car- 
ried her burden away. And the man was never silent, 
and the mad-eyed mother changed not. 

The sixth evening I clung to the trooper who brought 
supper to me. I spoke no words — only clung to him. 
Fiercer than ever the temptation besought me to strike 
the jailer down as he smiled and beckoned after the call 
for retreat had sounded. I tried to sing, but my voice 
was hoarse and broken. I could not smoke, for I had 
not eaten. The darkness was moving with shadows. 

I cannot tell the time it all happened. It is horrid for 
me to think of it now. There was the scream of a child. 
I never heard the voice before, but it was from Tad's 
throat 1 An instant later the black tomb below the flagging 
was filled with cries — but they did not last. I sprang to 
the bars of my cell ere the sounds had ceased to vibrate 
in the dark chamber. 

And in the white moonbeams of the plaza I saw the 
mother of the baby girl crawling slowly from the well 
curb toward the entrance of the last cell to the right. 

And that moment as I looked something snapped in my 


198 The Last Cell to the Right. 


brain. During the many days which followed in the hos- 
pital I saw the gaunt, smileless woman filling her can at 
the well. And often the black tomb below her would 
vibrate with wailing echoes. 

There is a small room in the troop headquarters now at 
Manati which the captain ordered to be set apart for 
military prisoners. 



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Watch out for Mint Julep Kid,” mumbled poor Fogarty 




t 



The Fever’s Fifth Man. 


/ 


I 




THE FEVER’S FIFTH MAN. 


Fogarty was the heaviest and most depraved man in the 
troop. Moreover, he had the reddest face I ever saw with 
one exception — a man connected with political adjust- 
ments back in my native burg. Maybe I wrong Fogarty. 
It depends upon the point of view from which one scans 
depravity. Briefly, his faults were these : 

He terrorized recruits. Following each pay-day, he 
flirted with serpentine combinations until broke. He was 
utterly devoid of reverence or moral conception. He 
cursed incessantly, executing weird flourishes and intro- 
ducing innovations of the most nerve-shriveling nature. 
Scientists would have called him a study of degeneracy. 
Cavalrymen deemed him only superficially depraved be- 
cause he threw away money and loved his horse. Mint 
Julep was the horse's name. 

Now, I was a recruit and in Fogarty's squad. No man 
or boy is a rational being during his first month 
in the cavalry service. Veterans say their marked suc- 
cess in life is due to it— or their failure. A recruit has 
much to learn, but first of all he must overcome the 
if-mama-could-only-see-me-now expression his face is 


204 


The Fever’s Fifth Man. 


prone to assume. He learns that it is unprofitable to 
expatiate upon the rich appointments of his residence far 
away, and upon the princely salary he threw up. He 
learns to grin while his trousers are sticking to his legs, 
because they are chafed and bloody from bareback riding 
in the bull-ring. He learns that the U. S. commissariat 
does not supply pie, silken hose or scented pillows. He 
learns the peculiar devilishness of Southern army camps in 
sultry weather. He learns to eat flies and other strange 
things — and to eat them in vicious sunshine. He learns 
what a terror the rainy season is for one who can’t get 
out of it for several reasons. He learns to chew holes 
in his tongue when a superior officer calls him a dis- 
grace to his country and other expressive things. He 
learns how insignificant it is possible for a human atom 
to be. He learns to laugh at the whole business and write 
home how strong and happy he is. 

Some recruits never get rational. They take things 
seriously. They mutter “God help me,” and bad things 
about wars and armies. 

I enlisted about the time poems on the Maine became 
unpopular. Fogarty applied a system of ghoulish torture 
to make me miserable. I concluded that he was a cun- 
ningly-constructed object for my hatred, and that his heart 
was packed in ice. What I concluded about army life in 
general I kept to myself, thereby scoring a hit. 

One evening I won a foot-race and found myself a 
friend of Fogarty’s. Old soldiers are fond of physical 
demonstrations. He was in my set of fours in troop drill 


The Fever’s Fifth Man. 


205 


the next morning. Naturally, my horse had it in for me, 
because I was only a tilty, trembly recruit, and the bridle 
did not fit. Several officers had already directed stereo- 
typed call-downs at me. The troop halted for a moment 
while horsemen formed on our right. We stood at at- 
tention — very properly — all except Fogarty. To my be- 
wilderment he slipped down from his mount, deftly and 
quickly tightened my bridle on both sides of the curb, 
and stepped over his horse again, whispering: 

‘^Give me a chew tobacco. Kid.” 

He had risked reprimand to do me a good turn, and 
the ice packing which I pictured about his heart oozed 
out of my mind forever. 

We were on the skirmish line together, crawling up the 
drenched hill in front of Santiag’, Fogarty and I. We 
heard the droning death-whistle which is thrown from 
Mauser barrels, and saw the punctures which the whis- 
tling things made in roots and sand and in soldiers. We 
turned our faces up when it rained, and gaped like lizards 
do. We tried to cough out sand which caked in our 
throats. We propped up our heads with empty can- 
teens when neck muscles collapsed. We burned our hands 
on the barrels of our own carbines. Cartridge-belts burned 
our waists. We did not mind any of these things. 

We knew nothing — felt nothing but the heat. It was 
the sunshine that we cursed at huskily — the terrible sun 
of Cuba. It put a throbbing weight in our heads. It 
made us laugh. It bound our limbs. It mixed the stifling 
smoke of powder with the* steaming, choking stench of the 


2o6 


The Fever’s Fifth Man. 


ground. That stench, which the sun made, is fever. It 
filled our stomachs, our lungs and our brains. 

When the command “Rest” was heard along the firing 
line, I used Fogarty's mess plate to pile up the sand in 
front of me. Mine was thrown away. And when it was 
night I smoked half of Fogarty’s last pipeful, and after 
that I rolled over on to half of Fogarty’s blanket. Mine 
was thrown away. 

“Thank God, we didn’t get punctured this day,” I mut- 
tered. It was night, and silent about. The Red Cross 
men were busy. 

“I’m too tired to give a dam. Kid,” said Fogarty. 

A couple of days later I awoke in the morning feeling 
stiff and tired. We were encamped about the city. At 
noon my face burned and I did not answer mess call. 
I wanted to sleep. At 4 o’clock Fogarty felt my cheeks. 

“I’ll tell the top-sergeant to let you pound the bunk 
awhile longer,” he said. 

The next day I was in the hospital, feeling hot and 
thirsty and hungry, all at once. The air in the hospital 
tent was full of groans and the odor of drugs. It was 
also stifling. The boys about me had felt the weight of 
a locomotive concentrated into a Mauser rifle ball. To 
me Fogarty said: 

“Kid, you’ve got the fever.” 

After that I didn’t see him for six weeks, because I 
was sent back to the States on a hospital transport. I 
had reached the furlough stage, which means that delirium 
was over, and that my fever had flickered out, leaving 


The Fever’s Fifth Man. 


207 

only half of me and a disreputable appetite — when Fo- 
garty came. 1 had no clothes to go on furlough with — 
nothing but a tattered shirt and a debilitated pair of cav- 
alry trousers ; and the worst of it was I could not get any. 

It is not hard for me to recall the events of that night 
when Fogarty came. I was watching the Red Cross men 
unload a hospital train. A procession of stretchers was 
passing from the cars to the fever-tents. Some of the sick 
men had been forced to walk. Had I not seen others 
staggering through the twilight, I would have said that 
Fogarty was drunk again. He dragged a huge blanket 
roll. 

*‘Kid, where’s the rest of you ?” he questioned weakly. 

I really embraced him that night — Fogarty, the pro- 
fane, the red-faced. And when he told me that he had 
brought along a bundle of my clothes from camp, I could 
not speak, for my voice-cords were numb. I only whim- 
pered. Fever leaves one childish-weak, you know. 

Fogarty had lugged along my things with his own — 
and he a sick man. He had remembered me after six 
weeks — remembered me, who was only a recruit. I tell 
you, gentlemen, there are men in Uncle Sam’s cavalry. 

That night Fogarty stretched his great body out on a 
mattress — a real one — for the first time in two months. 
His feet protruded through the iron rods at the lower 
end of the bedstead. 

“Are those women going to be here ?” He pointed to a 
couple of nurses. I nodded. 

“Why, it’s a cinch to have the fevers here, ain’t it. Kid ?” 


2o8 


The Fever’s Fifth Man. 


His tongue was dry like it was on the Cuban hills that 
day. A beam of the low, white moon looked in through 
the flap of the tent and rested on Fogarty’s hands. It 
made them seem pallid, but his face was very hot and red. 

An ugly fever is typhoid. It chars one’s brain and 
body with slow flame. It stretches the eyelids wide apart. 
In the middle of the day it glows to a white heat. It turns 
one into a helpless animal, that feels only an incurable 
thirst and a craving stomach — an animal that moans for 
ice water when the nurse is busy wrapping up a dead man 
in the next cot — a staring-eyed animal that knows there 
are such things as home and friends and death, but cares 
not. Listlessly he watches a companion fall into that 
chilled sleep. 

Typhoid plays with four men and gets earnest with the 
fifth — fatally earnest. The moon was high when I left 
Fogarty that night. 

A couple of weeks later he looked at me hard one morn- 
ing. It was going badly with him. 

“Why in the devil don’t you go home?” he asked ten- 
Jerly. It wasn’t like the old Fogarty’s voice. 

“Haven’t got a furlough yet,” I said, lying. The papers 
were eight days old already. “Haven’t got a hat, either,” 
I continued. I had been wearing Fogarty’s. Mine was 
lost. 

“Take care of this 'dough’ for me, will you. Kid? I 
didn’t have time to blow a dam red. It gets my nerve 
with this thirst.” 


The Fever’s Fifth Man. 


209 

He gave me his last month’s pay. Fogarty was getting 
hot, and the nurse pushed me away. 

“Keep the hat you got on, Kid.” 

I could barely hear his voice. His face was not very 
red now. How I wished he could see the pain inside 
of me for him. “Keep the hat you got on. Kid. I’ll get 
another if I don’t croak.’” 

The doctor hung around Fogarty’s cot the next night. 
The nurse had drawn a chair close to him. I held a lan- 
tern near. The rain clouds were venting themselves out- 
side. 

“Watch out for Mint Julep, Kid,” mumbled poor Fo- 
garty. He was not looking at me. His eyes stared at the 
sleeping flies on top of the tent. His eyelids were far 
apart. 

“They’ll be good friends — Julep and the Kid — ^both 
dam good fellows. . . . Nope — not drinking a thing 

— sworn off — ask the Kid. Oh, I forgot ; the Kid’s gone 
home to his mother — got sick, you know — nice little chap, 
the Kid — make a good soldier. Gone home — way up 
North — to his mother.” 

The nurse fanned him. His eyes still stared at the 
sleeping flies. The nurse knew then that Fogarty was 
picked out for a fifth man. Silently she fanned him and 
watched. 

Not long after that Fogarty was mustered out of the 
service. 

And all this is to show how I peered under the veneer, 
which environment made, and saw a great, warm heart. 



The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 


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THE STORY OF A CAVALRY HORSE. 


There was something of pathos in the high, clear 
whinny which was borne across the meadows one sum- 
mer morning of years ago. A fancy black three-year-old, 
trotting behind a shiny buckboard, picked up his ears 
and answered his mother in the only way he knew. The 
big man in the buckboard was a professional horse-buyer 
for Uncle Sam’s cavalry. 

“Scream again, my young beauty, while you’ve got the 
chance,” the man said. “You’ll soon be far away from 
these meadows and the old lady over yonder who calls to 
you.” 

The horse buyer looked back at the shapely gelding. 
His experienced eye took in the wide-distended nostrils 
with their crimson lining; the large, intelligent eyes as 
dark and deep as a starless ocean. The man in the buck- 
board saw again the easy grace of the colt’s stride, the 
power and elegance of his flat, thin limbs, the arched 
beauty of his glossy neck — and he chuckled at his bar- 
gain. Faint and far-away was heard the neigh of the 
mother back in the meadows. The colt plunged a little, 
whinnied nervously, and trotted on. 


214 The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 

There are two kinds of recruits in the cavalry service — 
the horses and men. Both must be instructed in the pri- 
mary mysteries of drills and bugle-calls. Both suffer 
during the first days, but gradually the unvarying system 
becomes grafted into the very nature of the trooper and 
his mount. They need only to be parted from the life for 
a little while to learn how dearly they love it. Here is the 
story of a wild, irresponsible colt, whose brain was full of 
mother and meadow memories, and who became Sheri- 
dan, the pride of a Black Horse troop. In many ways it 
is the story of any cavalry horse. 

Long after he became the joy of his master and the 
envy of every other cavalryman, Sheridan still remem- 
bered those dark, awful days in the corral. Every good 
trooper knows that a horse can suffer mentally, and that 
a colt is like a child, inasmuch as he does not forget his 
mother and his first associations in a day. And when a 
big cavalryman is seen to pet and cheer a lonely, tremb- 
ling stranger on the picket line, you can usually judge 
that he is a good soldier and a man with a human heart. 

There were many nervous youngsters in the corral 
where the black three-year-old was turned loose. Many 
of them snorted wildly and stood at bay when a man 
approached. The pretty gelding with soft, jetty eyes — 
the little heart-hungry three-year-old — was soon to learn 
what made the other horses so wicked and fearful. 

There was the curling swish of a lariat, a sickening jar 
from the taut rope — then the black gelding fell heavily to 
the turf. One horseman sat upon the trembling animal’s 


The Story of a Cavalry Morse. 21 $ 

head, and another pressed a biting, burning steel into the 
glossy softness of his shoulder. For an eternity it seemed 
to sizzle into the writhing flesh ; then again the red iron 
was pressed against the tenderest skin under the mane. 
After that there was weakness and nausea and the wounds 
gradually healed into the mark by which every cavalry 
horse can be distinguished. “U. S.” is what the letters 
read. 

Then followed the week’s ride to the regiment — that 
stifling ride in a freight car — packed flank to flank so that 
there would be no injury from the jolting of the train. 
Oh, how the unhealed shoulders rubbed and burned! 
The black gelding’s limbs stung with weariness; his 
tongue was shrunken and dried from thirst, his whole 
body craved for hay and grain. The tightening lariat, 
the burning steel, the killing ride — all helped to create 
in the brute mind a lasting horror toward human kind 
and wicked thoughts. Is it any wonder that some troop- 
horses are painfully slow in giving their trust to the cav- 
alryman who grooms and cares for them? 

But the glossy three-year-old was not ruined by the 
suffering of those first days. Perhaps it was a perfect 
balance of mind, which the old lady back in the meadows 
had given him, which caused the black recruit to suffer 
and be gentle still. There was wonderment and fear in 
those great, dark eyes, but no sullen hatred lurked there. 
The shapely youngster staggered out into the clear day- 
light, trembling for the events which another day might 
bring, yet hoping for brighter things. A detachment of 


2i6 The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 

boys in blue led him away to the Black Horse troop, and 
his life in the cavalry service began with a deep, delicious 
drink at the watering-trough and a nosebag full of fresh 
grain. 

Old cavalrymen are not always charitable to a recruit. 
Old cavalry horses are never hospitable to a stranger on 
the picket line. If placed at a distance, he is only re- 
garded with distrust ; if placed within reach of the heels of 
the veteran chargers — well, the stranger will kick back if 
he is spunky enough. Friendships are mighty on a 
picket line, but they are not molded in a day. 

^‘Ah, you’re a trim little black baby,” said a tall trooper 
close to the ear of the dark stranger the first night. His 
words made the colt very happy. The cavalryman gently 
slapped the glossy breast. “There is blood in your veins, 
my little man ; and your eyes are as black and bright as 
a squaw maiden’s. Why, your chest sticks out like a 
game chicken’s! Quit breathing on my neck, young- 
ster. Don’t you know that isn’t polite ? 

“By jove, I like you, little black man! Do you sup- 
pose you’re heavy enough to dance around the parade- 
ground with a big fellow like me on your back ? If you 
were mine. I’d have your black sides shining like a piece 
of oiled silk in ten days. Whoever taught you to go nos- 
ing about a fellow’s neck and ears? I suppose they 
treated you pretty rough up there in the corral, but you 
didn’t lose your nerve, did you, kid? Why, you’re as 
gentle as a young girl with her big sister’s first baby! 


The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 217 

Guess we could serve out an enlistment pretty well to- 
gether.” 

It all came about that the new gelding was issued to the 
tall trooper, and after that he was known as Sheridan in 
the Black Horse troop. The first thing which any cav- 
alry horse learns is that a certain bugle-call sounds at 
headquarters twice a day, and that it causes every cavalry- 
man to run for a filled nosebag. Then an officer shouts : 

“Feed,” after which the filled nosebag is strapped in the 
proper place. Sheridan learned to whinny expectantly 
with the others, when the feed-call sounded. But all the 
calls and army movements were a perfect chaos in the 
black recruit’s brain at first. He wondered why he was 
left behind in the morning when all other horses, save 
sick ones, were saddled, formed into platoons and ridden 
away. Sheridan tried hard to stand quietly when the 
regulation saddle was first cinshed about him by the tall 
trooper. He tried very hard to do the right thing and 
keep his four feet near the turf, when the man mounted. 
But there was spirit in the black recruit. He would be- 
come nervous, in spite of the reassuring whispers of the 
big cavalryman, and he would plunge and fret when he 
did not understand. 

Gradually, however, Sheridan learned to feel the 
thoughts of his gentle, patient rider. He learned to 
wheel at the touch of a spurless heel. He learned to an- 
swer the weight of a bridle-rein upon his neck, and from 
the indefinable sameness of the many bugle commands, 
there emerged familiar notes to the ears of the black 


2i8 The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 

gelding. Like every other troop-horse, Sheridan^s 
nerves thrilled when the ‘‘dash” music burst with a scream 
from the trumpet. 

“Trot,” calls the troop commander. The bugle re- 
peats it. A hundred dusty campaign hats are jerked 
roughly downward. A hundred horses feel a tightening 
bit. “Sherry” rears a little, but does not mar the beauty 
of the line. 

“Gallop,” the bugle plays. The horses plunge high in 
the ecstacy of anticipation. There is fiery crimson in 
every wide-stretched nostril. Every trooper’s face is 
covered with dust and moisture. Every trooper’s jaws 
are shut like a vise, and every bridle-arm is as stiff as 
steel. 

“Draw! Saber!” Listen to the rattle of a hundred 
lightened sheaths. Watch the sweep of a hundred flash- 
ing blades. The sua is playing with the sabers. The 
points are held forward, shoulder high and horizontal. 

“Charge !” Like an engine answers to an open throt- 
tle, the horses settle down. Flank to flank they leap for- 
ward. Madly the men yell. Stirrup touches stirrup. A 
dust cloud follows. 

“As fast as the slowest horse,” the officers have often 
warned. 

There is no slowest horse ! It is a race — a wild, strain- 
ing, exhilarating race. The horses bound low. The men 
feel under them a moveless saddle. Not a head mars the 
symmetry of the line. It is beautiful, with an awful 
beauty — this American cavalry dash ! 


The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 219 

Sheridan trembled for hours after it, even while the tall 
trooper caressed him. 

‘‘Why, Sherry, your gait is a lullaby,’^ the big cavalry- 
man would say. “You dash like a shooting star. You’re 
a born soldier, bright eyes, and the best horse in the 
troop. . . . No, I haven’t any sugar stowed away in 

that shirt pocket, so you needn’t nose for it. Maybe I 
didn’t know a good thing when I picked you out. What 
have I ever done that you should knock my hat off with 
your nose. Ah, you’re a playful little darkey-joker !” 

At the watering-trough Sheridan touched noses with 
Poncho and made friends. Another day he walked close 
to the heels of Rio Grande, a long, black-bodied charger, 
and the latter did not even lower his ears. Again he was 
tethered next to Cherokee on the picket line, and the two 
became chummy. The black gelding was a troop-horse 
now ; “one of the fanciest,” who knew no life nor desired 
to know no other than that of the cavalry. The whinny 
which floated over the meadows that summer morning 
long ago was only a misty memory. And all the while 
there grew in the mind of the beautiful black a deeper, 
truer affection for the tall trooper who groomed and 
petted him. 

But men come and go in every cavalry outfit — ^the 
horses seldom change. Old soldiers finish their terms of 
enlistment, recruits come in. Sheridan, every inch for 
the cavalry, lost his old master whom he loved. He was 
sought after by each man in the troop— and he tried 
bravely and sorrowfully to become attached to his new 


220 The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 

owner. ... At times one of his old friends would 
be missed from the picket line and never seen again. Was 
there to be an end to this breezy, beautiful life? 

The sun of a Tampa summer faded the black gloss from 
Sheridan’s back, and every other animal in the Black 
Horse troop was hued like the shoulders of a preacher’s 
old coat when that summer was ended. But Sherry was 
mighty still. Not one of the six hundred horses with- 
stood better the horrors of the transport during an eleven 
days’ trip from the States to Ponce, Porto Rico. Where 
the lower tier of horses were kept, the air was heavy with 
death. The cavalrymen, half mad through weariness, 
threw pails of salt water upon the drooping horses. The 
eyes of the animals were filmy and half closed. Many 
sank and moved not again until the hoisting gear raised 
them up through the hatches, suspended them over the 
vessel’s side, and the rope was severed. And the cavalry- 
men, who loved their horses, watched them silently as 
they dropped into the tropical sea. Troopers can live 
through such a trip, and feel only achings in the head; 
but no horse has the vitality of his rider. 

And Sheridan, no longer a four-year-old, climbed the 
muddy hills of Porto Rico’s interior, as strong of wind 
and sure of foot as any native pony. Other horses choked 
and died of pneumonia, caused by the endless rain, but 
Sherry stood upon his feet in the daytime and whinnied 
when the feed-call sounded. Sherry did not know that 
his best days were spent. 

At last there came a morning when many new horses 


The Stoty of a Cavalry Horse. 221 

were brought to the troop headquarters. Something 
pained pitilessly in the brain of the splendid old charger 
when he saw his master studying and stroking the limbs 
of those recruits. After that Sherry had no master. For 
a little while he was used for recruits to practice upon. 

“Old Sherry wouldn’t hurt a baby,” the first sergeant 
would say to the embryo cavalryman. There were no 
more pettings ; no more sugar during those last days in 
Porto Rico, but deep down in the heart of the old black 
gelding there was a hurting wound. The soft dark eyes 
were wise and mild still, but at times they would seem to 
fill with shame and sadness. 

Sheridan could not keep back the weight which the 
years brought, nor the stiffness which came from the 
muddy Porto Rican hills. He thought more during those 
long, rainy days of the mother who had called to him 
from the far-away meadows. He longed for the first 
trooper who had so patiently taught him to be a good 
cavalry horse. Old Sherry drowsed and dreamed of the 
campaigns when he was the pride of the Black Horse 
troop — poor old Sherry. 

Then there came a sad, prophetic day. He learned 
then what had become of his old friends, Buster, Chero- 
kee, Rio Grande, Poncho and Mint Julep. 

Again there was the crushing weight of the tightened 
lariat, the red iron and the nausea. “1. C.” were the let- 
ters which slowly healed upon the shoulder of the old 
troop-horse now. “Inspected and Condemned,” is what 
the letters mean. Back to the hated civilian the veteran 


222 The Story of a Cavalry Horse. 

of the Black Horse troop must go. Sheridan was auc- 
tioned off for “what he would bring.'* Oh, the shame of 
it! 

No cavalry horses are ever brought back from Porto 
Rico. A rich Spanish planter led the old black away 
from the life he loved. Over the muddy hills was borne 
the bugle call for feeding. Sheridan raised his head, 
whinnied and looked back. The Spaniard pulled at the 
halter, and the old troop-horse — no longer — obeyed as 
he had always done. 

There were only a few days more. The morning 
dawned when Sherry did not regain his feet. His soft, 
dark eyes seemed to linger upon other scenes. There 
was something unreadable in their misty depths. His old 
friends, the life and the trooper whom he had loved — all 
were gone. He would not touch grain. Even the 
strength of the mighty Sheridan had left him. No cav- 
alryman stood by to hold that drooping head and to 
cheer that breaking heart. . . . There was nothing 
left but the ghost of the old black charger — a ghost with 
a broken heart. 

But in the regulations it reads that old cavalry horse-^ 
must be condemned and sold “for what they will bring.*’ 






A Soldier and a Man. 





A SOLDIER AND A MAN 


A certain trooper riding through the poverty district 
of Ciales with a main guard detail, glanced at a native 
senorita whose features were pretty. Since the senorita 
glanced back, the trooper smiled, as any other American 
soldier would have done. It was only the smile of a 
second on the part of the soldier, because there was some- 
thing about the face of the red maiden which was like 
the scratch of a pin upon the naked nerve. The next 
day when the main guard was relieved, if you had ques- 
tioned the cavalryman concerning the circumstance, he 
would have remembered it with difficulty, because it made 
no impression. 

But the red maiden did not forget. At the moment, 
the smile of the soldier was a thrill to her, and in the 
night it became a dream, and the next day it was a mem- 
ory — restless, imperious, passionate. 

Her name was Eulalie. If she ever had another, she 
did not remember it any more than she remembered who 
her father and her mother were. Nor would she have 
cared had not the other senoritas in the poverty district 
reminded her day after day that her family was a name- 
less thing. Because the other senoritas were at least posi- 


228 


A Soldier and a Man. 


tive on the point of their mothers, they delighted in 
nursing the torrid venom which was in Eulalie’s nature, 
through their indelicate suggestions. 

There was another thing, however, which hurt her far 
more cruelly than the biting words of her little red sister 
m.aidens. It was the same thing which jarred upon the 
nerves of the trooper, who rode by with the main guard. 
And since the American cavalrymen had been quartered 
in the old Spanish barracks at Ciales, where Eulalie 
lived, she had truly learned the horrid pain which was 
her misfortune. 

There is majesty and ardor and romance in the dark 
Spanish eyes of the Porto Rican senoritas, but their teeth 
are imperfect, and this is because the rain-showered hills 
of their native land are full of sugar and acid. The 
sweetness is drawn up in the stalk of the cane and in the 
shaft of the cocoa-palm, and the acid is absorbed by the 
orange and lemon trees. The combination has spoiled 
the smile of many a red maiden, and caused tooth-ache 
remedies to rank next in importance to quinine in the 
chests of the regimental surgeon-major. 

When Eulalie was a very little girl there had come 
to her a deeper affliction. She remembered very little 
about it now — hardly anything except that a dark-faced 
fellow had struck her, and then kicked her afterward, 
because the hand which he had used was bleeding. After 
that there was a dark hole, where Eulalie’s two front 
teeth should have been. Perhaps the little red maiden 
would never have cared had not the American cavalry- 


A Soldier and a Man. 


229 


men come to live in the old Spanish garrison, which was 
only a little way from the poverty district where Eulalie 
slept at night. 

In truth, she might have married Manrique Robles, 
the ox-driver, and lived in a little shack on the Manati 
trail, but there was much of garlic about Manrique, and 
much of ill-temper, as the scarred flanks of his steers 
would testify. Besides, she had seen the big, white 
cavalrymen who came from the Northland, and she hated 
Manrique when she noticed how polite he was to them. 
Besides, some of her red sister maidens had harkened 
unto the strange language of these white horsemen, and 
was it not whispered that the same maidens had parted 
their lips for the kisses of the men who spoke this lan- 
guage? 

Indeed, she would not marry Manrique, for he was 
very ugly and very black; and when the Manati fords 
were high and impassable so that he could not go down 
the trail with his ox-cart, there was always blended with 
the garlic about him the odor of white rum, and then 
Manrique was uglier than ever. 

But would the big cavalrymen ever smile upon her? 
Would she not become — if she refused to marry Man- 
rique — would she not become like Mad Marie who slept 
in the jail, and all day long staggered about the streets, 
lugging a half-dead baby, and begging for centavos with 
which to buy more rum — begging forever? Would the 
big cavalrymen ever smile at her, when she was so ugly 
to look upon? Would not the other senoritas tell the 


230 


A Soldier and a Man. 


white soldiers that she was nameless? Oh, why was she 
born so? Why did her sister maidens persecute her so? 

^‘Ave Marie r Eulalie would mutter despairingly when 
her mind burned with all these thoughts. Even if she 
did not know her mother, there was hunger in her heart 
just the same. Even if she was without two front teeth, 
there was ardor in her soul just the same. Yes, and there 
was a rare softness in her cheeks, and little beauty tints 
that were as faint as they were wonderful. And there 
was a thrilling sadness in her great, dark, Spanish eyes, 
and long lashes shaded these tropical gems lest they 
should shine too brightly. And her hair — Eulalie’s hair 
— ah, it was as dusky as the night in a rayless Rio Grande 
gorge, and it was as soft as — ah, but there was nothing 
so soft as Eulalie’s hair ! 

But Eulalie knew only that she was nameless, and that 
she was ugly when her red lips were parted, for the 
other senoritas did not tell her more than this. And 
after the big, white cavalrymen came, every day she 
cared less for Manrique, and every day she hated herself 
more, because the soldiers laughed and made love to the 
other senoritas, but did not come near her. When the 
moon-beams whitened the hard clay of the plaza, the 
soldiers strolled up and down, and in low tones they 
repeated all the Spanish words they knew into the ears 
of the other little red maidens; but Eulalie was alone, 
except for when Manrique was very persistent. 

And at last the great day came, when the trooper rode 
through the poverty district with the main guard detail — 


A Soldier and a Man. 


231 

and smiled for a single, memorable, rapturous second — 
and was gone. 

♦ *3(C5tC3|Cj|c*S|c 

Trooper Arden was respected, if not understood. And 
let it be known that a private soldier is not respected 
by his fellows without reason. Trooper Arden won the 
regard of the other troopers in seven minutes, on the 
hurricane deck of a transport, the second day out from 
Savannah. 

When one writes that Corporal Carey was a good sol- 
dier, it does not necessarily imply that he was a good 
fellow; but nobody ever said that the corporal wasn’t 
game to the backbone. Anyway, the corporal was Irish 
and proud of the force in his fists. In fact, the whole 
troop was proud of Carey, just the same as it would 
be proud of owning the fastest horse in a regiment. 
Trooper Arden sacrificed Corporal Carey, and thereby 
attained the respect of his fellows. It was legitimate, 
and this way: 

‘*Oi could lave you fur dead in tirty seconds,” said 
the corporal, on the hurricane deck, and the crowd 
lounged closer. 

“If I should fight you,” Arden replied quietly, “I would 
be court-martialed for hitting an officer.” 

“The nerve av him!” jeered the corporal. “If Oi win, 
Oi’m an officer— if Oi lose, Oi’m a man, and a scrubby 
little wart at that.” 

“Then I’ll fight you,” said Arden wearily, tossing away 
a cigarette. 


232 


A Soldier and a Man. 


In the forward hold of the transport, a temporary 
hospital had been fitted up. Corporal Carey dragged 
himself thither twice daily during the remainder of the 
voyage. And so it was that one soldier gained respect 
for himself. 

But Trooper Arden was not understood. He ate less, 
slept less, and talked less than any other man in the 
troop. Six out of every eleven regular soldiers smoke 
cigarettes. Arden smoked more than any two men in 
the outfit. For supper he would invariably draw double 
rations of coffee. When taps sounded and the lights 
were ordered out, the cups untouched might be seen on 
the box beside his bunk. At reveille in the morning the 
cups were still there, but they were empty. If you were 
in the same squad with Arden, and you happened to wake 
up in the middle of the night, you would be apt to see 
the face of the trooper glowing behind a cigarette. He 
never seemed tired, never missed a call, never complained, 
never swore — all of which was unsoldierly. 

He was lean, dark, and without fear. By his face you 
would not know whether he had been a preacher or a 
gambler before his enlistment. He was nervous, but not 
irritable ; reserved, but not impolite : educated, but a good 
fellow still. On pay-days he gambled. He lost cheer- 
fully, but seldom. He won carelessly. He drank, but 
you would never know it unless you happened to see 
him. Arden was a mystery — a mystery with a grudge 
against himself. Perhaps it was his other life that made 
him so. 


A Soldier and a Man. 


233 

It was Trooper Arden who smiled at Eulalie and 
turned his head away so quickly, while riding with the 
main guard that morning. In an hour later he had for- 
gotten. His horse was Palto, the unkillable, whose tem- 
per was as rocky as his sinews were tough — Palto, the 
six-year-old, who alone kept his appetite during the 
eleven-day transport horror, and who kicked out of pure 
joy every time a nose-bag was strapped over his white 
face. Palto had a habit of kicking promiscuously, any- 
way. He also bit with abandon, but he was solid with 
Trooper Arden. 

Only one thing beside the trooper^s smile did Eulalie, 
the little red maiden, remember the next day ; and, 
strangely enough, this one thing was that the horse 
which her soldier had ridden was possessed of a white 
face. 

And that evening just after retreat, Arden walked 
down to the stables just to be alone, and in the twilight 
he saw queer things. 

It was quite dark under the canvas of the stables, and 
as Arden strolled nearer, he heard sounds soft and low — 
the sound of words which were strangely sweet. The 
trooper paused and watched, rolling a cigarette mean- 
while. The troop horses were grinding at their oats 
and snorting the dust of the dry hay from their nostrils. 

. . . Surely, here was something wonderful! Was 

there not some one standing close to the white face of 
Palto, the unkillable ? 

Yes, and it was a girlish form, and her head was snug- 


234 


A Soldier and a Man. 




gled closely into the mane of Palto, the white-faced. 
And, Caramba! The brute Palto was as gentle as the 
girl herself ! Trooper Arden crept closer. The cigarette 
remained unlit in his lips. Far up the trail the great 
white cliffs were monstrous gray and gloomy, standing 
out against the purple of evening. Beyond the stars were 
growing and whitening. A bunch of cavalrymen in the 
plaza were singing a song of the Northland. 

” Buenos nochas, senorita,” Trooper Arden said softly. 
He looked like a different fellow when he smiled as he 
did that moment. 

Eulalie turned. The cavalryman could not see the ter- 
ror that was in her great, dark eyes. Slowly he ap- 
proached and placed his hand gently upon her arm. With 
the other he rubbed the forehead of Palto, the unkillable, 
talking softly all the while. And gradually there crept 
into the soul of the little red maiden a joy which was 
great and new. There was no need to fear, for had not 
the big soldier smiled? After a little while Eulalie 
pressed her lips to the soft muzzle of the troop horse; 
and strangely enough Palto, of reputations numerously 
bad, seemed to like it. 

And Trooper Arden smiled again, and walked out to- 
ward the forage-tent, while Eulalie followed. Standing 
there in the fading twilight, an impulse came to the sol- 
dier — an impulse which he had long thought was dead 
within him. He kissed the little red maiden. 

There was something about that kiss which made the 
trooper reflect. Perhaps his thoughts concerned some 


A Soldier and a Man. 


235 

other woman whom he knew before he became an atom 
in the great blue mass of Uncle Sam’s horsemen. Per- 
haps ^but that would be irrelevant! In a moment more 
he was the man with a grudge against himself, and he 
uttered this exclamation: 

‘^Ba-ah!” 

Eulalie shuddered slightly, though she did not under- 
stand. Arden grasped her arm softly as if in apology, 
and the two walked out of the corral toward the trail. 
As they passed a clump of low palms, a native emerged. 
Unconsciously Eulalie shrank closer to the soldier. A 
second afterward she turned and saw a look upon the 
native’s face which caused her to shudder again. And 
this time she understood. The native was Manrique, the 
ox-driver, and he had bowed with abject courtesy to the 
soldier. 

A little later Trooper Arden sank down upon his bunk 
to smoke and think, and Eulalie hastened away toward 
the poverty district, where her home was. Ah, but she 
was a very happy little red maiden that hour! The sol- 
diers were still lounging and humming in the plaza, for 
taps had not yet sounded. Mad Marie, who begged eter- 
nally for the centavos, had attained a state of melancholy 
inebriation by this time, and was howling in a maudlin 
monotone in front of the quarters. A couple of native 
policemen dragged her into the jail, which was also a 
poor-house, and the soldiers, watching, laughed among 
themselves. Her child was silent in the woman’s arms. 

After taps sounded one might have seen Manrique, the 


236 A Soldier and a Man. 

ox-driver, drinking white rum in the cafe. His face was 
not pleasant to look upon. And when the cafe was closed 
and he could stay no longer, Manrique staggered over to 
the poverty district of the town and paused in front of 
one the shacks. Loudly he kicked the bolted door. 
There was no reply, and he kicked again and a third time. 
Then he staggered away toward his own shack on the 
Manati trail. And as he went, Manrique cursed in a 
strange tongue. 

Everywhere about him was the black shade of a moon- 
less tropical night, and everywhere above him was the 
white glory of the tropical stars. 

'‘What in the devil do you call that beast ‘Palto* 
for?” whispered a trooper standing next to Arden at 
grooming-time the next morning. 

Any soldier knows that no talking is allowed at groom- 
ing. That is why the man next to Arden whispered his 
question. Palto, the unkillable, had just damaged the 
hide of the troop horse nearest. At regular intervals the 
white-faced was facetious, and he invariably vented it 
in this manner on any live thing which happened to 
be near, so long as it was not Trooper Arden. The latter 
eyed the other soldier curiously for a second, and then an- 
swered the question in this manner: 

“A woman I used to know back in the States had a 
habit of calling her dog ‘Palto.' ” 

The soldier who asked the question grinned forbear- 


A Soldier and a Man. 


237 

ingly, said nothing further, and arrived at this conclu- 
sion: 

“Arden is a soldier because some white woman threw 
him down. He is eating his heart out because he landed 
hard and cannot forget.’' 

The conjecture was a safe one, but the soldier did not 
guess that the dog which the woman had called “Palto” 
and the trooper who smoked cigarettes and drank black 
coffee while other troopers slept, were both embodied in 
the one being, who was scrubbing the mud of Porto 
Rican hills from the hocks of the white-faced. 

“Cease grooming!” shouted the top-sergeant. The 
features of Trooper Arden were a study of grimness as 
he walked up the trail toward the quarters. That even- 
ing Arden smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours 
when he saw Eulalie cuddling cosily into the mane of his 
very bad and very bossy troop horse. The unkillable 
revealed a forbearance which was startling and unutter- 
able. A half hour later when the man and the maiden 
walked out of the corral toward the trail, Palto whinnied 
a farewell like the soldier and gentleman he was. 

“Adios,” smiled back the little red maiden, but Palto 
did not notice since he had just un jointed several lengths 
of aft quarters, and landed a scientific double hook 
against the high-sounding ribs of his neighbor. The sole 
offence of the neighbor was that he came within reach. 
Palto always insisted upon having an ample share of the 
picket line. 

No Spanish words were spoken as the two walked 


338 


A Soldier and a Man. 


slowly up the trail toward the plaza and the quarters; 
yet in the mind of each there was heaviness. The man 
was thinking of the joy and pain of human attachments. 
In a glance of the red maiden’s wonderful eyes as she 
stood beside him in the falling night, he had seen her 
passionate soul. He had never meant to play with Eu- 
lalie. He knew the wounds and wickedness of such a 
doing. A woman in the Northland had inflicted such 
wounds upon her dog, Palto — but he had kissed the little 
red maiden! And that night the soldier knew that he 
could crush the heart of Eulalie through a careless word 
or a scornful glance — even as his own had been crushed. 

But what did he care — bah I He had lived his life. He 
would be a soldier now until the hateful breathing was 
over. He hoped it would be over soon. He was not to 
blame if his nature became a mass of broken fragments 
because of the caprice of a white woman. He had lived 
his life. He could not love — no, it was a hard, a bitter 
thing to love! Still he could pity. But what did he 
care? . . . Still — he — could — pity! 

Of what was the little red maiden thinking? Of each 
moment which had been a rapture until she saw the ugly 
black face and the horrid eyes of Manrique, the ox-driver, 
glaring at her from a shadow as she walked up the trail 
toward the plaza. 

That night before the man and maiden parted, Eulalie 
turned her eyes toward the face of the soldier, and her 
hands were upon the soldier’s shoulder. Then Trooper 
Arden kissed the little red maiden as any other Ameri- 


A Soldier and a Man. 


239 


can would have done. And Eulalie, in the greatness of 
her joy, smiled; but it was so dark that the cavalryman 
did not see what caused him to turn his eyes away so 
quickly as he rode with the main guard detail that first 
day. 

Manrique, the ox-driver, skulked in the darkness and 
brooded, and Mad Marie was noisy up by the quarters. 

After taps sounded, Trooper Arden was alone with his 
black coffee, his cigarettes — and his thoughts. It was 
late that night before Manrique shuffled into his shack 
on the Manati trail, and the next day his steers suffered. 

In the evenings which followed, Palto, the unkillable, 
welcomed his master and the maiden down at the stables ; 
and often in dark places the soldier saw a native follow- 
ing him strangely. The face of the native was sinister, 
even when he saluted abjectly, but Arden did not care 
to understand. 

One day when he was doing a guard in the poverty dis- 
trict, Eulalie watched him shyly from the door-way of her 
shack. A group of senoritas strolling up and down in 
the sunshine paused to remind Eulalie that her family 
was nameless. The trooper pacing his post understood 
the Spanish words which were repeated by the senoritas, 
and he caught the significance of the manner in which 
they were uttered. One of the red maidens showed her 
teeth, and then pointed to the face of Eulalie, after which 
all the red maidens laughed loudly. Eulalie grew gray 
with shame and fled from sight. The trooper understood 


240 A Soldier and a Man, 

all these things, and he was very thoughtful as he paced 
up and down. 

In truth, he had lived his life. He was only a soldier 
now. He feared nothing, not even himself. He did not 
fear Fate. Why should he since Fate had done its very 
worst by him? . . . Still he could pity! And that 
evening down at the stables poor Eulalie forgot all her 
woes, because the soldier smiled often ; and while he was 
near her the hunger went out from her heart. A great 
and good thing is pity. Manrique, the ox-driver, knew 
it not as he watched the man and the maiden from a 
shadow. 

One morning a few minutes after reveille, the troopers 
lounging in front of the cavalry quarters stood erect and 
yelled. The pay-master with a volunteer guard was ap- 
proaching on the Manati trail. That night the bunks 
were changed into gaming tables, and many bottles of 
white rum were sold at the cafe, and much money changed 
hands. 

Trooper Arden could not lose that night, but the sol- 
diers who sat with him could; and if it ever occurred 
to them that Arden was “working a system,” they did 
not say so, for Arden was a respected man in the- troop. 
It seemed that night as if Fate were trying to palliate 
the harshness of her former dealings with this man. His 
pile grew big, but by his aspect you would have imagined 
that he was losing steadily. He was the same mystery. 

One by one the losers made resolutions for the next 
pay-day, and dropped out of the game. And when there 


A Soldier and a Man. 


241 


was no more playing, Trooper Arden gathered up the 
deniro Americano which had come his way, handed it 
uncounted to the first sergeant to keep, and walked out 
of the quarters. As he neared the plaza somebody crept 
out of the shadow and followed him unsteadily — ^but 
silently. 

♦ ***♦♦♦♦ 

“He's a wizard,” observed one trooper, when Arden 
was no longer present. 

“He has soaked up a couple or three hundred this 
night,” said another. 

“And there is suicide stamped all over his face,” re- 
marked a third. 

“He’s the best soldier in the bunch of you,” growled 
the sergeant of the squad. 

“And he can make any two av ye sleep the sleep av 
an innacint baby-girl wid the fists av him.” 

This last came from Corporal Carey, and it came with 
decision. At this moment the stable guard dashed into 
the room. 

“Some greaser has cut Arden in the back! He says 
it’s only a scratch, but he can’t stand. Come on, you fel- 
lows — grab those lanterns!” 

The squad-room was deserted in a second, and a half- 
dozen troopers were double-timing it for the stables. 
Arden was lying upon the ground with his head against 
a bale of hay. 

“It’s only a little puncture,” he said, quite evenly. 
. . . “Say, corporal, reach those cigarette papers from 


242 


A Soldier and a Man. 


my left-hand pocket. I can’t work this hand. Oh, I’ll 
roll it myself — gracias muchas! . . . Give me a light, 
please.” 

“Tell me what you know,” demanded the first sergeant, 
striding up. 

“The black boy who struck me didn’t do a good job — 
I know that! ... I was standing at Palto’s head 
telling him a little love story. All at once the brute sniffed 
and struck at something over my shoulder. Just at that 
moment I felt the scratch, and a native ducked under the 
picket-line and dashed toward the trail. Palto took a shot 
at the fellow passing, but he didn’t land ” 

A streak of pallor from the lantern rested upon the 
fallen trooper’s face. The first sergeant had two other 
questions to ask. He wanted to know if Arden was sure 
it was a native who knifed him. He would not have 
thought such a thing if it had not been for the pay-day 
and the winnings. He desired to know also if Trooper 
Arden had seen the face of the man with the knife. But 
the whiteness of the soldier’s features caused the first 
sergeant to remain silent, and his thoughts made him 
look very stern. He detailed an extra guard for the 
stables, and ordered four privates to carry the wounded 
man up to the quarters. Then he walked up and down 
in the darkness. 

That night when the troop surgeon returned to the offi- 
cers’ quarters after attending the wound of Private Ar- 
den, he remarked to the troop commander: 

“That fellow Arden is positively without feeling. He 


A Soldier and a Man. 243 

laid perfectly still upon his bunk and puffed away at a 
cigarette while I took a foot of stitches in his back.” 

*‘It isn^t a case of taps, is it?” the captain inquired. 

The surgeon did not think so. There were conditions, 
however. He believed that his patient knew more about 
what had happened to him than he cared to tell. But 
he did not divine the true reason why Arden was silent. 
All the commissioned officers knew that there would be 
no sleep and much trouble in the cavalry quarters until 
the native who cut Arden was cold — that is, if his identity 
became known. They knew, too, that there was a possi- 
bility of a young war being started, because it often hap- 
pens that when troopers are unleashed for an hour they 
remain restless for days. You could not have made a 
commissioned officer believe, however, that Arden was 
silent because he also understood this point. 

The fortnight following evinced certain peculiarities. 
Any hour almost in the long, hot days. Trooper Arden 
had only to glance out of the big door of the quarters 
to see a face, the expression of which was a mute prayer 
that he would live. Eulalie, the little red maiden, was 
as near his side as she dared to be. The agony of her 
heart was reflected in the eyes that peered into the cav- 
alry quarters — peered hungrily, hopelessly, for the glance 
of the soldier who had become her God, whose breath was 
her morning and her night, whose smile was her heaven ! 

Had you driven her away from the door-way of the 
American garrison, Eulalie would have died — ^after one 
thing was accomplished. The soldiers laughed at her; 


244 


A Soldier and a Man. 


she did not hear them. The other red maidens scoffed 
at her; Eulalie heeded them not. A native fruit vender 
standing all day at the comer of the plaza saw that she 
ate nothing. He tossed a couple of bananas in her direc- 
tion. She carried the fruit for hours in her hand, not 
knowing that it was there. She lived for nothing save 
for the smile of her soldier. She remembered nothing 
save that he had kissed her! 

And all the while Trooper Arden suffered (though 
you would have to see his wound to know it), and he 
watched the little red maiden and rolled cigarettes with 
his good hand and wondered. In truth, life held no joy 
for him. Sometimes he felt sorry that Palto, the white- 
faced, had spoiled the work of the knife. He could not 
help it, if it were his nature to despair silently, smilingly, 
because he was not the light of one white woman^s eyes. 
No, he could not help that, but he could see every minute 
in the day a woman’s soul through the eyes that watched 
him from the door-way of the garrison. Trooper Arden 
could see a woman’s soul with all its ardor, hope, desire 
and despair. He could not love — no, because to him the 
past was eternal, since it held a deathless memory. . . . 

Still, he could pity! 

And so days grew and became a part of that which is 
gone ; and in none of them was Manrique, the ox-driver, 
seen in the Ciales cafe or in the town; but many times 
the Manati torrent laved the blood from the flanks of his 
steers as they breasted the fords. And all the while Eu- 
lalie watched her soldier from the door-way. 


A Soldier and a Man. 


245 


At last the night came when Trooper Arden muttered 
many strange things and forgot to smoke. The troop 
surgeon looked at the soldier’s wound, and in the same 
breath he cursed the tropics. He wondered what the 
patient meant in mumbling continually about a dog whose 
name was “Palto,” but the soldiers who stood near 
thought that their fellow was dreaming of his white-faced 
troop horse. 

If you ever get a bad cut while you are in the tropics, 
set your face toward the north at once. If you are a sol- 
dier, and your troop commander does not advise you to 
take a furlough, he is either heartless or inexperienced. 
Flesh wounds do not heal on white men or horses in the 
tropics. All troop commanders and surgeons know this 
now, but they didn’t know it in Arden’s outfit until the 
night that the patient mumbled incoherently and ceased 
smoking cigarettes. And when the bit of knowledge was 
forcibly thrust upon the troop surgeon, he cursed the 
tropics, instead of himself. At the same time, he did 
not think that the patient was in a fit condition to be 
moved now. 

The next morning Trooper Arden opened his eyes, and 
wondered how he had happened to sleep so long He 
would have moved his head, but there was something 
wrong with the muscles of his neck. He rolled a cigar- 
ette with his right hand, and the room orderly struck a 
match for him. The troop surgeon entered at this mo- 
ment. 


246 


A Soldier and a Man. 


*‘Do you want to go up north ?” the doctor asked. 

Arden spoke no word for several seconds. Then he 
turned his eyes toward the door-way. He saw Eulalie, 
the little red maiden. He saw, too, the agony and the 
prayer which was in her great, dark, Spanish eyes. Then 
he said to the troop surgeon : 

don't know of any one who is pining for me back 
in the States. . . . No, I don’t want to go — up 
north!” 

An hour later the first sergeant entered the squad-room. 
Arden eyed him thoughtfully for a moment and then said : 

“I would be very glad, sergeant, if you would give 
me that bunch of money that I left with you the other 
night.” 

The non-commissioned officer brought him the win- 
nings. 

“Thank you, sergeant,” Arden resumed. “Could I see 
the chaplain this morning?” 

Eulalie was at the door-way, and a few minutes after- 
ward the godly man of the regiment was brought to the 
wounded trooper’s bedside. For a time he listened to 
low-spoken words from the man in the bunk, after which 
Eulalie was also brought to the trooper’s bedside. And 
gradually there came to her the mighty realization that 
she was no longer nameless, for did not the interpreter 
tell her so in her own tongue? And she was allowed to 
kiss the white soldier, but why — why was this money — 
this fortune placed in her hands by the chaplain ? 
She would die for the smiles of the white soldier — but 


A Soldier and a Man. 


247 


his money — his name . . . The great, dark eyes of 

the red maiden were stretched wide apart, and the prayer 
was still in them! 

Trooper Arden seemed very weary. He was not to 
blame because his nature could do nothing but pity now. 
He had not meant to trifle with Eulalie. He knew the 
human harshness of that — ah, so well he knew it! But 
he had kissed the little red maiden. It was only one of 
the mistakes of which his life was made. He sighed, 
for he was very weary. He asked a trooper near him 
for a cigarette, because Eulalie was holding fast to the 
one hand which he could use. He was glad that he could 
even pity! 

And this was the man whom a woman of the Northland 
had called Palto, and sent away to be a soldier. 

On a night not long afterward Eulalie, the little red 
maiden, was seen passing by the cavalry quarters at 
Ciales. Mad Marie was wailing mournfully in the street, 
and her child was silent in her arms. In one of the squad- 
rooms Corporal Carey was telling the other troopers 
what a great fellow Trooper Arden had been. Eulalie 
passed by a group of senoritas in the plaza. They no 
longer called her nameless. 

Down at the stables Palto, the unkillable, whinnied a 
greeting to the little red maiden as she approached, and 
he held his head very still when Eulalie buried her face 
in his mane. Taps sounded up in the quarters, and still 
the form stood close to the white face of the troop horse. 
After the stable guard was relieved at midnight, Eulalie 


243 


A Soldier and a Man. 


walked stealthily down the Manati trail toward the shack 
of Manrique, the ox-driver. 

Moment after moment passed as she listened in the 
darkness by the door-way. And at last she crept in as 
silently as her shadow on the threshold — as silently as 
fell the starbeams, which were everywhere! 

And the next day, and in the days which followed, the 
steers of Manrique, the driver, browsed unyoked on the 
Porto Rican hills and fattened. 


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